t 


CALIF.,  LIBRABY,  LOS  ANGELES 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 
•*• 


BOOKS  BY 
SEWELL  FORD 


INEZ  AND  TRILBY  MAY 
TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 
TORCHY 

Harper  &  Brothers 
Established  1817 


ANNETTE    COMES    BACK    FROM    TIDYING    UP    HIS    ROOM,    AND    EXHIBITS    SOME 
DISCOVERIES  SHE'S  MADE  [See  p.   185 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

By  Sewell  Ford  author  of 
"Inez  and  Trilby  May"  "Torchy"  Etc. 
With  Illustrations  by  Marshall  Frantz 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON  MCMXXII 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

Copyright,  1922 
By  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  U.  S.  A. 

First   Edition 
i-w 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.  EASING  OUT  OF  A  CLINCH 3 

II.  TRILBY  MAY  IN  TIMES  SQUARE 22 

III.  SUBBING  IN  FOR  GLORIA 39 

IV.  How  INEZ  CALLED  THE  TURN 55 

V.  TAKING  THE  BUMPS  WITH  BARRY 71 

VI.  BACK  STAGE  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 86 

VII.  GETTING  TAGGED  BY  GERALD 103 

VIII.  ONE  UP  ON  THE  TWINS 120 

IX.  FAME  NODS  AT  TRILBY  MAY 137 

X.  INEZ  HANGS  UP  A  RECORD 155 

XI.  GUESSING  ON  UNCLE  NELS 174 

XII.  DEEP  STUFF  BY  UNCLE  NELS 191 

XIII.  LISTENING  IN  ON  ZADA 207 

XIV.  WILLARD  LOOKS  IN 223 

XV.  INEZ  AND  THE  VILLAGE  BLIGHT 239 

XVI.  INEZ  SAYS  IT  WITH  TURKEY 255 

XVII.  A  NEW  SLANT  ON  INEZ , , , 272 


21 2959.3 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

ANNETTE  COMES  BACK  FROM  TIDYING  UP  His 
ROOM,  AND  EXHIBITS  SOME  DISCOVERIES  SHE'S  MADE 

Frontispiece 

AND  AS  SOON  AS  I  GOT  Mv  BREATH  I  CAUGHT  HIM 
BY  THE  COAT  SLEEVE.  "You  MEAN,"  SAYS  I,  "THAT 
SHE  WOULD  RANK  A-i  ABOVE  ALL  THE  OTHERS?" 

Facing  page  172 

"SAY,  You  WANNA  KNOW  Too  MUCH,  You,"  SAYS 
HE,  AND  HE  SHUFFLES  OFF  ACTIVE  TO  HOLD  UP  A 
COUP!  THAT'S  DRIVEN  UP  WITH  AN  OWNER 
CHAUFFEUR  Facing  page  184 

I  WAS  GONNA  Fix  IT  UP,  WHEN  I  GET  SOME  MONEY, 
THAT  WE  Go  GET  MARRIED Facing  page  196 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 


TRILBY   MAY  CRASHES   IN 

• 

•  • 
• 

Chapter  I 
Easing  Out  of  a  Clinch 

I'M  strong  for  my  friends,  the  few  that  I've  got. 
But  say,  they  do  keep  you  busy,  don't  they? 
Take  Inez  and  Barry  Platt.  Miss  Peterson 
first.  Here  I  thought  I  had  her  all  placed.  Her 
rich  Uncle  Nels,  after  a  good  deal  of  skittering 
around,  had  asked  her  to  come  and  share  his 
nine-room  elevator  apartment,  keep  him  from 
being  lonesome,  and  help  spend  some  of  his  in- 
come. What  could  be  fairer  than  that,  or 
softer  ? 

Yet  at  the  end  of  the  one  day  Inez  takes  to 
think  it  over  she  calmly  shakes  her  head  and 
announces  that  it's  all  off. 

"Whaddye  mean,  off?"  says  I.  "What's  the 
idea?" 

"I  gotta  job,"  says  Inez. 

"It  must  be  a  snap  de  luxe,"  says  I,  "to  make 
3 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

you  turn  down  all  Uncle  Nels'  offers.  What 
sort  of  a  job?" 

"Ticket  lady  in  big  movie  house,"  says  Inez. 
"Twenty  dollars  a  week  and  I  see  all  the  reels." 

"Great  lollypops  I"  says  I.  "You'd  rather  do 
that  than  be  the  favorite  niece  of  a  kind  old 
plute  whose  only  out  is  that  he  likes  to  sail  tin 
boats  in  the  bathtub  I" 

"Huh  1"  says  Inez.     "Old  dumhuvud !" 

"Eh?"  says  I.     "Doom-what?" 

"By  Sweden,"  exclaims  Inez,  "they  would  call 
him  that." 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "Scandinavian  for  dumb-bell, 
eh?  I'm  not  so  sure,  though.  He  strikes  me  as 
being  rather  a  shrewd  old  scout  in  a  good  many 
ways.  He  must  have  worked  up  good  credit  at 
the  bank.  You  can't  hate  him  for  that,  can 
you?" 

Inez  shrugs  her  shoulders.  "In  ticket  booth," 
says  she,  "I  see  everybody  and — and  I  do  my 
hair  swell  every  night." 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "You'd  be  Exhibit  A,  under 
the  bright  lights.  And  all  the  young  hicks  and 
the  old  sports  would  be  giving  you  the  double  O 
as  they  filed  by.  And  you'd  hear  the  orchestra 
playing,  and  by  stretching  your  neck  around  you 
could  see  the  pictures,  all  free  gratis  for  noth- 
ing. But  after  you'd  seen  the  same  feature  five 

4 


EASING  OUT  OF  A  CLINCH 

or  six  nights,  and  heard  the  same  tunes  for  a 
month,  and  got  the  cut-up  wink  from  a  thousand 
frisky  males  every  night;  don't  you  think,  Inez, 
you'd  get  sort  of  fed  up  on  it  all?" 

Inez  comes  as  near  pouting  as  her  placid  dis- 
position will  let  her  and  I  can  guess  that  she 
looks  on  me  as  a  crepe  hanger.  "Maybe  I  like 
it  all  time,"  she  insists. 

I  can  tell,  though,  that  she's  not  so  sure.  And 
while  she's  wabbling  I  slides  out  into  the  hall  and 
phones  for  Uncle  Nels  to  come  around.  "Stop 
on  your  way  and  tuck  under  your  arm  a  box  of 
fancy  chocolates  for  Inez,"  says  I.  "You'll  have 
to  talk  soothing  to  her,  too,  or  she'll  give  you  the 
cold  eye.  She's  been  offered  a  sit-down  job  in  a 
movie  palace  and  she's  wearing  her  chin  high." 

"Such  a  girl  I"  I  can  hear  the  old  boy  groan. 

But  when  he  shows  up  at  the  boarding  house 
he  has  a  cargo  of  candy  and  humility  and  there's 
a  pleading  look  in  his  skim-milk  blue  eyes.  A 
quaint  old  duffer,  this  Uncle  Nels.  With  his 
round,  pink  and  white  face  and  the  thin  grayish 
hair  he  looks  something  like  a  wrinkled  baby 
who  needs  a  shave.  He  gazes  friendly  at  Inez 
and  sighs. 

"Yust  like  your  mother,  you  are,"  says  he, 
"when  we  come  from  Sweden  together  long  ago. 
We  had  hard  times  for  while,  but  we  stick  to- 
2  5 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

gether.  Then  she  gets  married  and  lives  on 
farm  and  has  big  family.  Always  hard  work  for 
her.  .She  get  sick  and  die.  You  remember?" 

Inez  nods  but  goes  on  munching  chocolates. 

"You  was  ten,  twelve  years  old  then,"  says 
Uncle  Nels,  rubbing  his  chin  reminiscent,  "and 
bymeby  that  step-mother  came.  What  a  tongue  ! 
She  make  you  work,  too.  I  no  like  her.  I  don't 
come  any  more.  When  they  hear  I  make  money 
she  writes  letters  to  beg.  No.  Not  a  krone  for 
her.  But  you;  don't  ask  nothing.  Like^your 
mother.  She  wouldn't.  What  would  she  think 
of  me  if  I  didn't  do  something  for  her  girl?  Any- 
way, I'm  gettin'  old  man  now.  I  don't  like  to  be 
alone  so  much,  and  if  I  talk  with  strangers  I  get 
in  trouble.  So  you  come,  eh?" 

Inez  may  have  been  touched,  but  you'd  never 
guess  it.  What  she  seems  most  interested  in  is 
peeling  the  tinfoil  off  a  fancy  bonbon.  But 
finally  she  looks  up  and, asks:  "Could  Trilby 
May  come,  too?" 

"Oh,  come,  Inez,  be  fair!'^  I  breaks  in.  "You 
can't  expect  to  saddle  me  on  your  Uncle  Nels  as 
well.  That  would  be  a  bit  thick." 

"I  no  go,  then,"  says  Inez  decided. 

"Sure,"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "I  like  to  have  you 
both  come.  Plenty  room." 

And  after  a  half  hour  debate  I  had  to  com- 
6 


EASING  OUT  OF  A  CLINCH 

promise.  I'd  go  for  a  while,  but  not  as  a  graft- 
ing friend.  I'd  have  to  be  free  to  take  any  job 
I  found  and  I'd  want  to  pay  at  least  as  much 
board  as  I  did  here. 

"Then  it  gets  settled,  eh?"  asks  Uncle  Nels. 

"I  dunno,"  says  Inez.  "Can  I  have  maid  to 
fix  my  hair  and — and  everything?" 

"Gosh,  Inez !"  I  gasps.  "How  do  you  get  that 
way  so  sudden  ?  You  with  a  lady's  maid !  Say !" 

"O,  well,"  says  Uncle  Nels,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "Why  not?  It  don't  cost  so  much, 
I  guess." 

"And  breakfast  before  I  get  dressed?"  in- 
sists Inez. 

"If  you  want,"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "I  go  for 
early  walk  in  park  and  eat  mine  in  little  place 
with  motormen.  You  could  have  yours  in  your 
room  when  you  like." 

"Swell !"  says  Inez.    "I  think  I  come." 

"I  should  think  you  would,"  says  I.  "A  per- 
sonal maid  and  breakfast  in  bed!  Say,  Inez, 
what  are  you  qualifying  for — a  movie  star?" 

Inez  ducks  her  chin  and  rolls  her  eyes.  "You 
know  that  stuck-up  Miss  Nordsen  who  bosses  us 
so  much  when  we  work  by  Druot's  in  Duluth?" 
she  asks.  "I  write  her  about  everything." 

Yes,  there's  a  lot  that's  quite  human  about 
Inez,  after  all.  Same  with  Barry  Platt,  only  he 

7 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

may  express  it  different.  For  you  know  while  this 
was  going  on  Barry  was  up  in  Utica  hovering 
around  while  a  sick  aunt  decided  whether  to  get 
well  or  not.  And  that  next  night,  when  I  was 
back  at  Miss  Wellby's  collecting  some  odds  and 
ends  that  Inez  has  forgotten  to  move,  he 
drifts  in. 

"Then  Aunt  Louella  must  have  made  a  quick 
recovery?"  says  I. 

Barry  shakes  his  head.  "I  was  almost  too 
late,"  says  he.  "Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well.  We 
hadn't  been  on  the  best  of  terms  lately,  you  know, 
she  wouldn't  have  been  much  cheered  up  at 
seeing  me." 

"Oh,  you  can't  tell,"  says  I.  "You  were  about 
the  only  relative  she  had,  weren't  you?" 

"Absolutely,"  says  Barry.  "I  suppose  that's 
why  she  left  all  her  property  to  the  Old  Ladies' 
Home  and  the  fund  for  pensioning  retired  mis- 
sionaries." 

"You  don't  mean  it,  Barry!"  says  I. 
"Scratched  you  completely?" 

"All  but  a  life  insurance  policy  that  she  forgot 
to  change,"  says  he.  "And  she  was  always  tell- 
ing me  how  fond  she  was  of  me,  and  getting  sore 
if  I  did  not  write  to  her  every  week!  Had  this 
up  her  sleeve  all  the  while,  too.  The  will  was 
dated  nearly  three  years  ago.  I  remember  now. 

8 


EASING  OUT  OF  A  CLINCH 

That  was  about  the  time  I  was  fussing  a  little 
blonde  from  Richmond  who  was  visiting  next 
door,  and  Auntie  was  wild  about  it.  Oh,  well! 
Now  I've  simply  got  to  get  going.  If  I  could 
only  place  a  one-act  play  or  something." 

"You  can't  by  keeping'  em  in  your  trunk," 
says  I.  "Few  managers  get  their  stuff  by  second- 
story  work.  You  gotta  make  yourself  a  pest, 
Barry  boy,  and  let  'em  know  you're  a  comer. 
Load  up  with  manuscripts  and  hang  around 
Times  Square;  that  would  be  my  program." 

"If  I  thought  my  stuff  was  any  good,  perhaps 
I  might,"  says  he.  "But  I'm  not  sure." 

"Haven't  I  admitted  that  some  of  it  wasn't 
so  rotten,"  says  I. 

"I  know,  Trilby  May,"  says  he.  "You've 
been  perfectly  bully  about  it.  And  there's  one  I 
had  almost  finished  that  I  thought  you'd  really 
like.  Say,  suppose  I  lick  it  into  shape  and  read 
it  to  you?  I  could  get  through  in  a  couple  of 
days." 

"All  right,"  says  I.  "I'll  brace  myself  for  the 
ordeal.  Come  around  and  shoot,  when  you're 
ready." 

"Eh?"  says  he,  staring.    "Around?" 

"Oh,  you  hadn't  heard,  had  you?"  says  I. 
"Well,  we're  no  common  boarding-house  persons 
any  longer,  Inez  and  I.  I  should  say  not.  We're 

9 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

carnage  trade,  charge  account  people.  Oh,  my, 
yes!" 

Then  I  told  him  how  Inez  had  worked  Uncle 
Nels  and  what  grand  style  we  were  living  in. 
''Especially  Inez,"  I  added.  "All  she  wants  is 
breakfast  in  bed,  a  personal  maid,  two  kinds  of 
dessert  at  dinner,  and  some  form  of  entertain- 
ment every  evening.  She's  going  to  get  it,  too. 
Well,  why  so  late  with  the  congratulations? 
What's  the  idea  of  the  droopy  jaw?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  says  Barry.  "Only  I 
suppose  I've  no  chance  with  her  now — just  a 
scrubby  newspaper  man.  And  I  had  rather 
thought,  you  know,  that  sometime  I'd  be  in  a 
position  to — but  that's  all  off,  thanks  to  Aunt 
Louella.  I — I'd  like  to  see  Inez,  though,  just 
once  more." 

"She'll  be  on  view,"  says  I.  "Better  give  us  a 
ring,  and  lug  around  the  new  piece.  We'll  make 
her  play  dog,  too,  and  if  it  doesn't  put  her  to 
sleep  you  can  send  it  to  some  of  the  Barry- 
mores." 

He  was  feeling  low  when  I  left,  however,  and 
his  heels  dragged  as  he  started  for  his  second- 
floor  back  to  burn  the  midnight  kilowatt  and 
hammer  his  rented  typewriter.  That's  the  way 
with  Barry  Platt.  He's  either  real  chirky,  with 
his  head  up  among  the  pink  clouds,  or  else  he's 

10 


EASING  OUT  OF  A  CLINCH 

struggling  with  the  blue  willies  and  coming  off 
second  best. 

So  I  wasn't  quite  prepared  for  what  crashed 
in  on  us  three  or  four  nights  later,  all  gussied 
up  in  a  sporty  black  and  white  checked  suit  and 
with  a  crook-handled  bamboo  stick  hung  on  his 
arm.  It's  hardly  the  same  Barry  Platt.  For 
he's  shaken  the  slump  out  of  his  shoulders, 
there's  a  confident  flicker  in  his  blue  eyes,  and  he 
has  that  winning  smile  of  his  set  on  a  hair 
trigger. 

"Look  who  we  have  in  our  midst,  Inez,"  says 
I.  "The  young  crown  prince  of  Oklahoma  is  my 
guess.  What's  yours?" 

She  looks  him  over  approving  and  chuckles. 

"Some  outfit,  eh?"  asks  Barry,  grinning. 

"It's  a  knockout,"  says  I.  "No  scion  of  the 
oily  rich  could  dress  the  part  noisier.  But  what's 
the  answer?  Have  the  Shuberts  given  you  an 
advance  on  something?" 

Barry  denies  it.  "Auntie's  life  insurance," 
says  he.  "I  thought  it  might  be  a  thousand  or  so. 
But  say,  it  was  ten !  Whaddye  know  about  that? 
Of  course,  I  haven't  cashed  in  on  it  yet,  but  I 
shall  within  a  few  weeks.  And  then — oh,  boy  I" 

"Just  the  high  spots,  eh?"  says  I.  "Going  to 
burn  a  streak  along  the  primrose  path  and  make 
the  Prodigal  Son  look  like  a  piker,  are  you  ?  A 

ii 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

green  and  gold  suite  at  the  Ambassador,  I 
suppose?" 

"Not  a  chance,"  says  Barry.  "I'm  not  going 
to  cast  myself  among  the  tip  hounds.  No  lobster 
palace  food  for  me,  nor  tribute  for  bootleggers. 
But  regal  raiment?  Yes.  A  costume  for  every 
day  in  the  week.  I  mean  to  array  myself  as  a 
successful  young  dramatist  and  try  getting  past 
the  office  boys.  That's  how  I  dope  it  out.  If 
you  can  impress  the  boy  on  the  gate  you've  taken 
the  hardest  hurdle.  Am  I  right?" 

"Sounds  reasonable,"  says  I.  "But  what's 
done  up  in  the  tissue  paper?" 

"Oh!"  says  Barry,  pinking  up.  "Just  a  trifle 
for  Miss  Inez.  Allow  me." 

"M-m-m-m!"  says  I,  as  she  unwraps  'em. 
"Posies  of  passion!  Orchids,  no  less.  Now, 
what  do  you  say,  Inez?" 

She  confines  herself  to  the  usual  adjective, 
though.  "Swell!  says  she,  letting  the  lavender 
silk  cord  run  through  her  fingers. 

"Cost  a  lot,  don't  they?"  asks  Uncle  Nels. 

"Tut,  tut!"  says  I.  "That's  a  question  one 
doesn't  ask,  you  know." 

"Huh !"  says  he.    "These  young  fellers !" 

But  just  as  Barry  was  getting  red  in  the  ears 
I  shifted  the  subject  by  asking  if  he'd  brought 
around  the  new  play.  He  had.  They  always 


EASING  OUT  OF  A  CLINCH 

do,  I  find.  And  with  a  little  gentle  urging  he 
agrees  to  read  it  to  us.  It's  only  a  one-act  comedy 
piece,  all  about  how  a  General  Motors  plutess 
from  Detroit,  Mich.,  comes  down  to  dinner  with 
Mumm-mah  at  the  Grand  Royal  in  Switzerland 
and  discovers  that  the  head  waiter  is  none  other 
than  the  romantic  Prince  Alex  who  had  been  so 
helpful  when  she  was  making  a  bluff  at  doing 
Red  Cross  reconstruction  work  in  Vienna  two 
years  before.  It  seems  they  had  danced  together 
and  taken  walks  in  the  moonlight  and  swapped 
mushy  conversation.  And  here  he  was  in  a  bob- 
tailed  soup-and-fish,  bowing  thankful  over  a 
fifty-franc  note  that  Mother  had  slipped  him  for 
a  table  overlooking  the  terrace. 

But  the  thing  doesn't  develop  the  way  those 
plots  usually  do.  Barry  has  given  it  a  new  twist. 
The  Detroit  plutess  is  just  as  strong  for  her 
dark-eyed  Prince  as  ever;  stronger,  in  fact,  for 
now  she  decides  that  she  has  a  look-in,  where 
before  she  was  only  a  passing  fancy.  And  she 
gets  out  the  net  without  putting  mother  wise. 
At  first,  too,  Prince  Alex  is  right  there  with  the 
come-back.  Then  he  notes  that  his  American 
charmer  has  been  taking  on  weight.  There  is  a 
hint  of  Mother's  double  chin,  and  the  arm  she 
rests  on  the  chair  back  is  more  or  less  beefy. 
Also  he  is  somewhat  staggered  by  the  size  of  the 

13 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

dinner  order  the  pair  reel  off  for  him  to  write 
down,  including  everything  from  thick  soup  to 
double  portions  of  patisserie  and  three  kinds  of 
fromage.  And  the  frothy  line  of  chatter  the 
young  lady  gives  off,  as  well  as  the  way  she  rolls 
her  r's  and  flats  her  a's  makes  him  cringe.  So 
when  she  comes  back  after  the  feather  fan  she 
has  carefully  planted  under  the  table,  and  tries  to 
date  him  up  for  a  Romeo  act  later  on,  he  hunches 
his  slim  shoulders  and  shakes  his  head.  He  tells 
her  that  as  a  prince  he  was  a  good  deal  of  a 
washout,  but  that  as  a  head  waiter  he's  getting 
on  fine  and  if  she  don't  mind  he'll  stick  to  it.  As 
a  final  stab  he  says  he  hopes  the  service  was  sat- 
isfactory and  trusts  that  Mam'selle  has  been 
adequately  nourished. 

Course,  it's  kind  of  thin,  high-brow  stuff ;  but 
some  of  the  lines  are  quite  snappy,  and  here  and 
there  you  could  get  a  laugh.  At  least,  I  could. 
All  Inez  could  work  up,  though,  was  a  yawn. 
She  didn't  merely  go  through  the  motions  behind 
her  hand.  Inez  has  no  subtle  tricks  like  that. 
When  she  yawns  she  makes  a  thorough  job  of  it. 
You  not  only  get  a  glimpse  of  most  of  her  mo- 
lars, but  you  hear  the  ennui  escaping,  like  when 
they  open  the  air-brakes  on  a  Pullman.  And  she 
lets  that  loose  right  in  the  middle  of  one  of 
Barry's  cleverest  speeches. 


EASING  OUT  OF  A  CLINCH 

It  was  a  blow,  all  right.  You  could  almost  see 
him  go  groggy  from  it.  For  he  has  a  good  deal 
of  the  sensitive  artistic  temperament,  and  a  jolt 
like  that  gets  to  him  hard.  Still,  he  stares  across  at 
Inez  hopeful,  as  if  it  might  have  been  a  mistake. 

"I — I  beg  pardon,"  says  he.  "Hope  I  haven't 
been  boring  you?" 

"I  no  like  readin'  much,"  says  Inez,  in  that 
flat-footed  way  of  hers.  "That's  all,  hey?  Then 
maybe  Uncle  Nels  and  I  go  to  movies,  second 
show." 

"Sure,"  says  Uncle  Nels,  rousing  up  from  the 
cat  nap  he's  been  indulging  in. 

And  inside  of  three  minutes  they  were  on  their 
way,  leaving  Barry  with  his  chin  down  and  his 
precious  play  tossed  on  the  floor. 

"It  must  be  pretty  punk,"  he  groans. 

"Well,  it's  no  great  whizz,"  I  admits.  "Too 
much  talky-talk  and  too  little  doing,  if  you  want 
my  honest  opinion.  Besides,  you're  no  great 
shakes  as  a  reader,  Barry.  You  do  dialogue  like 
a  Western  Union  desk  clerk  checking  up  a  night 
message.  No  expression,  no  pep.  Say,  if  you 
ever  got  the  chance  to  read  that  to  a  manager 
you'd  either  put  him  to  sleep  or  have  him  pushing 
the  button  for  the  bouncer.  And  some  of  those 
snappy  lines  would  get  across  if  they  weren't 
mumbled.  Here,  let  me  take  a  whirl  at  it." 

15 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

With  that  I  picked  up  the  sheets  and  finished 
reading  the  play.  Before  I  was  through  I  had 
Barry  sitting  up  with  his  mouth  open. 

"Why,  say!"  says  he.  "That  does  sound  like 
something,  after  all.  How — where  did  you 
learn  the  trick,  Trilby  May?" 

"Didn't  know  I  used  to  be  a  child  elocutionist, 
did  you?"  says  I.  "Well,  that  was  one  of  my 
early  vices.  Paw  trained  me,  at  the  tender  age 
of  nine,  and  at  thirteen  or  so  I  used  to  perform 
at  Grange  Hall  in  Tamarack  Junction.  Not 
'Curfew'  or  any  of  that  Fifth  Reader  stuff,  but 
chunks  of  'Les  Miserables'  and  'Pickwick  Papers' 
and  'Quo  Vadis.'  But,  of  course,  I've  outgrown 
all  that  childish  folly." 

"By  George!"  says  Barry.  "If — if  I  could 
get  you  to  read  'em  some  of  my  things  I'll  bet 
I'd  have  a  show.  Why  couldn't  you,  now?" 

"Is  this  a  business  proposition,  Barry,"  says 
I,  "or  just  talk?" 

"Twenty  per  cent  commission,"  says  he,  "en 
anything  you  land." 

"Might  be  worth  while  chasing  around  the 
theatrical  district  then,"  says  I.  "That  is,  if  you 
can  produce  something  besides  clever  chat — 
something  with  a  punch  to  it.  You  know?" 

Barry  shakes  his  head  gloomy. 

"I'll  bet  you  could,  though,"  says  I.  "And 
16 


EASING  OUT  OF  A  CLINCH 

that  zippy  dialogue  of  yours  deserves  a  good 
stiff  plot  to  hang  it  on.  Sure  you  can  dope  it  out. 
You're  rather  a  brainy  youth,  you  know.  All 
you  need  is  to  get  the  little  old  bean  working  at 
top  speed  and  the  first  thing  you  know  you'll  be 
grinding  out  regular  stuff.  I'm  backing  you  for 
a  winner,  anyway.  Why  not  make  a  stab  at  it?" 

Doesn't  take  much  to  chirk  Barry  up.  He 
says  he  will.  He  admits  that  he's  had  a  couple 
of  ideas  knocking  around  in  his  loft  that  seemed 
good  to  him,  but  he  hadn't  quite  had  the  nerve  to 
tackle  'em.  He  would,  though,  if  I'd  promise 
to  read  them  over  and  tell  him  exactly  what  I 
thought. 

"Trust  me,"  says  I.  "That's  the  easiest  thing 
I  do.  But  I  may  be  way  off  in  my  decisions, 
Barry.  I  don't  set  up  for  any  dramatic  cheese 
tester,  understand." 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  you  are,  however," 
insists  Barry. 

Then  for  a  while  we  sat  there  at  the  open 
window,  looking  south  over  New  York's  roof- 
scape.  And  say,  when  it's  all  lighted  up  it  isn't 
such  a  poor  picture,  is  it?  Standing  up  slim  and 
graceful  off  at  the  left  were  the  gray  spires  of 
St.  Patrick's,  almost  black  against  the  deep  blue 
of  the  sky.  To  the  right  and  lower  down  blazed 
Times  Square,  with  the  chewing  gum  and  tire 

17. 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

signs  rippling  and  twinkling;  and  high  up,  like  a 
visiting  star,  the  lantern  in  the  Metropolitan 
tower  burned  steadily  except  when  it  winked  red 
for  the  quarter  hours.  Then  from  some  sky- 
scraper over  west  of  Broadway  a  big  search- 
light beam  played  over  the  roofs,  as  if  paging 
a  lost  building. 

"Some  town,  eh?"  I  remarks. 
But  Barry  had  been  looking  without  seeing. 
"What  a  poor  nut  I  am!"  says  he. 
"Why  admit  it,  though?"  I  asks. 
"Can't  help  it,"  says  he.     "I've  just  tumbled 
to  myself,  Trilby  May." 

"Well,  that  sometimes  helps,"  says  I.    "What 
have  you  discovered  now?" 

"About  my  craze  for  Inez,"  says  he.     "She — 
she  wouldn't  do.    Not  at  all." 

"No?"  says  I.  "She's  a  nice  girl,  Inez." 
"I  know,"  says  Barry.  "Wonderful  disposi- 
tion, stunning  complexion,  and  eyes  that  make 
you  dizzy  to  look  into.  And  that  wheat  colored 
hair!  A  crown  fit  for  a  goddess.  But  very 
little  under  the  hair." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  I. 
"But  I  do,"  insists  Barry.    "And  I'm  sure  of 
something  else  now.    It  hasn't  been  Inez  at  all; 
at  least,  not  altogether." 

"Listens  complicated,  Barry,"  I  suggests. 
18 


EASING  OUT  OF  A  CLINCH 

"It  is,"  he  goes  on.  "You  see,  I've  been 
seeing  you  two  together,  almost  every  time  we've 
met,  and  I — well,  I  guess  I've  sort  of  got  you 
mixed,  or  combined.  I've  been  listening  to  you 
and  looking  at  Inez,  and  I've  just  found  out. 
Trilby  May,  that  it's  you  I'm  crazy  about,  after 
all." 

"Z-z-zing!"  says  I,  catching  my  breath.  "Say, 
Barry  boy,  when  you're  going  to  drop  a  bomb 
like  that  why  don't  you  give  a  person  some 
warning?  You  didn't  even  fizz  first.  My,  but 
I  feel  fluttery.  Of  course,  it  may  be  indigestion, 
or  stage  fright." 

That  doesn't  block  him  off,  though.  He's  an 
intense  young  person,  when  he  really  gets  started. 
Here  he  is  squeezing  my  fingers  with  one  hand 
and  reaching  around  for  a  Romeo  clinch  with 
the  other  arm.  And  me  letting  him  get  away 
with  it,  too.  It  isn't  so  poisonous,  either,  sitting 
in  the  gloaming  and  being  cuddled  up.  Any- 
way, I  don't  remember  struggling  to  break 
away. 

"Honest,  Trilby  May,"  'says  he,  "I  mean 
every  word  of  it.  You're  the  girl  I  want." 

"I've  always  felt,"  says  I,  "that  my  only 
chance  was  to  be  picked  in  the  dark,  when  my 
green  eyes  and  carroty  hair  wouldn't  be  such  a 
handicap." 

19 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"They're  all  right,  take  it  from  me,"  says 
Barry. 

"Only  a  real  nice  boy  would  say  that,"  says  I. 

"Then  you  will?"  says  Barry,  tightening  up 
on  the  side  hold.  "You — you'll " 

"Say,  let's  not  get  ahead  of  our  signals,"  I 
breaks  in.  "You're  such  a  fast  worker,  Barry, 
when  you  get  in  high  gear,  that  you  leave  me 
breathless.  Ease  up  on  the  gas  a  moment  and 
let's  make  this  next  lap  safe  and  sane.  You've 
made  a  pretty  quick  shift,  you  know,  and  perhaps 
you're  just  running  wild  down  the  track." 

"No,  I'm  not,  Trilby  May,"  says  he.  "I 
know  exactly  what  I'm  doing  and  what  I  want. 
It's  you,  and  if  you'll  just " 

"No,  Barry,"  says  I.  "I'm  not  grabbing  you 
as  if  you  were  a  life  raft.  I'm  floating  around 
nice  and  comfortable  just  at  present  and  I  may 
not  care  to  be  rescued  for  some  time  yet.  When 
I  do — well,  if  you're  near  by  and  handy,  I  might 
think  it  over." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  protests  Barry.  "Why  wait? 
I've  got  enough  to  start  on.  We  could  find  a 
minister  tomorrow.  Then  we  could  take  a  nice 
little  furnished  apartment  somewhere  and— — " 

"I've  got  the  picture,  Barry,"  says  I.  "Me 
cooking  the  eggs  and  bacon  on  the  gas  stove, 
and  having  words  with  the  janitor,  and  curbing 

20 


EASING  OUT  OF  A  CLINCH 

your  ambition  to  blow  all  that  insurance  money 
the  first  six  months.  No,  Barry.  It's  too  wide 
a  jump  to  take  so  hasty.  Besides,  I  can  make 
perfectly  vile  coffee.  Let's  hang  this  wilt-thou 
proposition  on  the  hook  for  a  while,  and  go  on 
with  the  campaign  against  the  Times  Square 
people.  I  think  it  would  be  better,  too,  if  you 
eased  off  on  the  strangle  hold.  Inez  and  Uncle 
Nels  are  due  back  from  the  picture  show  soon, 
and  we  don't  want  to  give  'em  any  real  life 
close-up  that  will  make  'em  gasp,  do  we?" 

It  wasn't  just  the  way  Ethel  Barrymore  would 
do  it,  I  suspect;  but  then,  I've  had  so  little  prac- 
tice. Anyway,  we  parted  as  good  pals  half  an 
hour  before  Inez  showed  up. 

"How  was  the  movie?"  I  asks. 

"Swell!"  says  Inez.  "Lotta  lovin'.  You 
should  of  been  there." 

"I'm  always  missing  something  good,"  says  I. 

3 


Chapter  II 
Trilby  May  in  Times  Square 

DO  you  know  how  to  get  to  Room  39  in  the 
Klaubert  theater  building?  If  you  do 
you've  had  a  liberal  education  and  Mr.  Edison 
is  probably  waiting  to  start  you  in  pasting  watt 
labels  on  electric  bulbs  at  sixteen  a  week. 

From  which  you  might  gather  that  I've  begun 
my  career  as  a  dramatic  agent.  Uh-huh.  You 
win.  Anyway,  I've  made  my  first  stab.  I 
haven't  taken  floor  space  fronting  on  Times 
Square  yet,  or  had  Trilby  May  Dodge  painted 
in  gold  letters  on  a  ground  glass  door;  but  I've 
crashed  into  the  game,  and  up  to  date  I'm  the 
sole  representative  of  one  of  our  most  promising 
young  playwrights.  Absolutely.  There's  hardly 
anything  worth  having  that  Barry  hasn't  prom- 
ised me,  or  isn't  ready  to. 

Wasn't  I  telling  you  that  he  admitted  having 
a  big  idea?  Well,  that  was  the  last  I  heard 
from  him  for  nearly  a  week,  and  when  he  finally 
did  appear  I  could  guess  from  the  flicker  in  his 
blue  eyes  that  he  had  a  script  concealed  about 

22 


TRILBY  MAY  IN  TIMES  SQUARE 

him.  He  had.  Inez  was  the  first  to  spot  it, 
though. 

"You  go  readin'  again?"  she  asks. 

Barry  tints  up  pink  in  the  ears.  "Why,"  says 
he,  "if  you  and  Trilby  May  don't  mind  I  should 
like  to " 

"All  right,"  says  Inez  cheerful.  "Uncle  Nels 
and  I  go  to  movies." 

"She's  such  a  thoughtful  girl,"  says  I,  as  the 
door  slams  behind  them. 

But  Barry  only  hunches  his  shoulders  and 
hands  me  the  typed  sheets.  "You  said  you'd  do 
the  reading,  you  know,"  he  suggests. 

So  I  did,  beginning  with  the  title — "The 
Prince  and  the  Flapper." 

"That's  a  good  touch,  Barry,"  says  I.  "Yes, 
I  like  that.  Now  let's  see  how  you've  followed 
it  up." 

I'll  own  that  I  was  surprised.  He'd  taken  the 
same  character  he'd  used  in  the  first  sketch — 
that  Alex  chap  who  flivvered  at  being  a  prince 
but  who  had  achieved  a  knockout  as  a  head 
waiter — and  he'd  built  up  an  entirely  new  yarn, 
with  a  ly-year-old  boarding-school  vamp  fea- 
tured as  the  leading  lady  and  a  comic  king  who 
grouches  about  being  recalled  to  the  throne  just 
as  he's  got  his  golf  game  going  strong  enough 
to  beat  the  vamp's  Daddy,  a  reckless  breakfast 

23 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

food  plute  from  Buffalo  who  never  plays  for  less 
than  a  dollar  a  hole.  And  in  the  first  two  pages 
he  works  up  a  situation  that  got  me  chuckling 
through  the  lines. 

"I  believe  you've  done  it,  Barry!"  says  I,  as 
I  finished. 

"You  really  think  so?"  he  asks.  "I  wish  I 
could  get  Morris  Klaubert  or  some  of  those  fel- 
lows to  listen  while  you  read  it." 

"If  they  don't,"  says  I,  "it  will  be  because  the 
thing  can't  be  done.  I'm  going  out  with  this 
tomorrow." 

"You're  a  good  pal,  Trilby  May,"  says  he. 

"Shush  on  the  soft  stuff,"  says  I.  "I'm  a  com- 
mission hound  with  no  mercy  in  my  heart  and  a 
low  cash  reserve  in  the  Rolled  Top  National. 
If  you  hear  of  the  police  reserves  answering  a 
riot  call  from  the  theatrical  district  you  can 
guess  that  I've  staged  a  whirlwind  offensive  and 
failed.  Otherwise  you  can  begin  figuring  out 
your  royalties." 

Which  was  just  by  way  of  keeping  Barry 
chirked  up,  of  course.  Yet  it  did  seem  simple 
enough  to  get  a  hearing.  Perhaps  this  wasn't  the 
regular  style  of  submitting  plays,  but  so  much  the 
better.  I'm  all  for  the  new  and  untried.  And  I 
found  out  where  the  Klaubert  offices  were  by 
looking  up  the  number  in  the  'phone  directory. 

24 


TRILBY  MAY  IN  TIMES  SQUARE 

You  know  who  it  is  that's  ready  to  rush  in 
where  bright  angels  are  apt  to  hang  back?  Then 
you've  got  my  description.  Cordially  yours. 
And  I  may  as  well  confess  that  my  ideas  on  how 
a  big  theatrical  magnate  runs  his  business — well, 
they  were  about  as  clear  as  a  pool  of  pea  soup. 
I  rather  think  I  expected  to  find  a  large,  imposing 
personage  sitting  in  a  striped  velour  easy  chair 
chatting  confidentially  with  John  Drew  and  Julia 
Marlowe,  or  running  over  a  new  Barrie  play 
with  Maude  Adams.  There  would  be  a  tall  sil- 
ver vase  filled  with  gladioli  on  the  polished  ma- 
hogany desk,  and  a  soft-footed  secretary  tiptoe- 
ing about. 

It  wasn't  like  that.  Not  at  all.  After  the 
elevator  man  had  shooed  me  off  at  the  third  floor 
I  had  to  push  my  way  through  a  mixed  lot  of 
females  who  were  either  chattering  chummy  to 
each  other  or  glaring  around  sullen.  From  the 
liberal  make-up  on  their  faces  and  some  of  the 
expressions  I  caught  on  the  fly  I  could  guess  that 
they  were  ladies  of  the  chorus,  or  wanted  to  be. 

"Say,  where  do  I  find  Mr.  Klaubert?"  I  asked 
one  of  them. 

"You  don't,  Dearie,"  says  she.  "If  you're 
lucky,  he  finds  you.  But  if  you're  crazy  for  a 
peek,  that's  him,  over  behind  the  rail." 

What  she  points  out  is  a  runty,  bald-headed 
25 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

little  man  with  a  beak  like  a  parrot  and  a  com- 
plexion like  a  first-run  pancake  before  the  griddle 
gets  working  properly.  He  acts  worried  and 
peeved,  and  as  he  paces  up  and  down  he  seems 
to  be  yapping  hostile  through  a  black  cigar  at 
several  low-brow  assistants  who  registered 
manly  independence  by  wearing  a  sly  smirk. 
Some  of  'em  were  yapping  back,  though,  and  a 
squeaky-voiced  office  boy  chanted  every  few  sec- 
onds: "Ballet  squad  now  rehearsing  on  the 
roof !  Ballet  squad  now  rehearsing  on  the  roof ! 
Ballet  squad  now  rehearsing  on  the  roof!"  So 
the  place  is  about  as  restful  as  Saturday  night 
in  a  bowling  alley. 

I  couldn't  figure  that  this  would  be  a  nice  spot 
or  the  proper  time  to  read  anything  to  anybody, 
unless  it  was  the  riot  act  through  a  megaphone. 
But  after  having  gone  so  far  I  didn't  want  to 
back  out  like  a  timid  country  girl  edging  away 
from  the  monkey  cage  at  a  circus.  Besides,  I'm 
no  shrinking  violet,  as  a  rule.  So  I  pushes  up  to 
the  railing,  elbowing  aside  a  perfect  36  with 
plucked  eyebrows,  and  springs  my  most  winning 
smile  in  the  general  direction  of  the  over-beaked 
little  man.  That  move  was  just  as  useful  as 
jiggling  the  receiver  hook  when  the  operator 
tells  you  the  line  is  busy.  Leaning  over  and 
waving  a  hand  at  him  produced  no  results  either, 

26 


TRILBY  MAY  IN  TIMES  SQUARE 

except  that  it  stirred  up  all  the  mulish  quality 
in  my  disposition. 

"Say,  Mr.  Klaubert,"  I  called  out. 

"Eh?"  says  he,  whirling  sharp.  And  then, 
seeing  it  was  a  stranger,  and  only  me,  he  simply 
stares. 

"Just  a  moment,"  says  I,  beckoning  him  up. 

At  first  I  thought  he  was  going  to  make  a 
flying  jump  and  bite  me  on  the  shoulder.  As  it 
was  he  only  took  a  hop-skip  my  way  and  brought 
up  two  feet  from  me  with  a  wrathy  finger  quiv- 
ering under  my  nose. 

"Say,  how  many  times  have  you  Janes  gotta 
be  told  we  ain't  takin'  on  any  bobbed  blondes  for 
this  piece?"  he  demands.  "And  you're  only  a 
terra-cotta  pink,  at  that." 

"Excuse  me,"  says  I.  "Natural  near-henna 
is  my  color  scheme,  and  I'm  no  chorus  candidate 
anyway.  All  I  want  is  to " 

"Bah!"  he  snorts.  "Think  I've  got  time  to 
listen  to  all  the  hard  luck  tales  any  ginger-haired 
skirt  wants  to  lug  in.  Couldn't  use  you  any- 
where. Your  figure's  no  good  and  your  face  is 
worse." 

"How  sweet  of  you  to  mention  it,  kind  sir," 
says  I.  "But,  say,  you're  nothing  to  tell  the 
world  about  yourself." 

"What's  that?"  he  barks. 
27 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"I  don't  want  to  get  personal,"  says  I,  "but 
all  you  lack  is  a  few  green  feathers  to  qualify 
you  for  hopping  around  on  a  swing  perch  in  a 
brass  wire  cage  asking  for  a  cracker." 

"Ya-a-ah!"  he  yaps.  "Hey,  Louie!  Lead 
this  fresh  Jane  out  and  drop  her  down  the  eleva- 
tor well.  Gag  her,  if  necessary." 

"It  isn't,  Curly  Locks,"  says  I  to  the  wire- 
haired  young  sport  who  jumps  through  the  gate. 
"But  if  you  don't  want  to  feel  how  hard  I  can 
pat  you'll  keep  your  paws  in  your  pockets.  I 
know  the  way  out." 

And  I  was  still  biting  my  under  lip  as  I  waited 
for  the  car  to  come  down  when  who  should  drift 
out  but  Budge  Fisher,  a  chubby-faced,  pleasant 
eyed  young  chap  who  had  been  down  to  our 
Greenwich  Village  joint  a  few  times  with  Barry 
Platt.  He  had  something  to  do  with  the  adver- 
tising department  on  Barry's  paper,  as  I  remem- 
bered. Anyway,  he  was  a  folksy  youth. 

"Well,  look  who's  going  to  give  the  drammer 
a  boost  now!"  says  he.  "It's  Trilby  May 
Dodge,  isn't  it?" 

"If  there's  enough  left  of  me  to  call  by  name," 
says  I. 

"Eh?"  says  Budge.  "Haven't  been  trying 
to  horn  into  a  squab  sextette,  have  you?" 

"That  seems  to  be  the  chronic  idea,"  says  I, 
28 


TRILBY  MAY  IN  TIMES  SQUARE 

"but  there's  no  truth  in  the  rumor.  My  simple 
thought  in  coming  here  was  to  read  a  play  of 
Barry  Platt's  to  Mr.  Klaubert.  Cute  notion, 
wasn't  it?  Either  the  thing  can't  be  done,  or 
I'm  the  world's  worst  dramatic  agent.  All  the 
success  I  had  was  in  causing  Mr.  K.  to  blow  a 
gasket  and  almost  getting  myself  thrown  out. 
We  exchanged  bitter  words." 

"Who?    Where?"  asks  Budge. 

I  nods  towards  the  door  behind  us. 

"Oh,  Abie!"  says  he.  "Say,  you  don't  mean 
you  tried  to  read  something  to  him?" 

"I  didn't  get  that  far,"  says  I. 

"I  should  say  not!"  says  Budge.  "Wouldn't 
have  done  you  any  good  if  you  had.  Why,  he 
wouldn't  know  a  Maeterlinck  tragedy  from  a 
Guy  Bolton  lyric.  He's  the  beanless  brother, 
Abie  is.  Does  the  dirty  work,  picks  the  chor- 
uses, that  sort  of  thing.  Morrie  is  the  one  you 
want  to  see — Morrie  Klaubert." 

"I'm  afraid  I've  queered  myself  with  the 
whole  family,"  says  I,  "after  what  I  said  to  the 
one  I've  just  left." 

"Nothing  to  it,"  insists  Budge.  "If  Morrie 
knew  you'd  bawled  Abie  out  he'd  be  tickled  to 
death.  He  can't  stand  him  either.  Nobody 
can." 

"In  that  case,"  says  I,  "I  ought  to  be  a  lifelong 
29 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

friend  of  this  Morrie  person.  Can  he  be 
seen?" 

"Well,  of  course,"  admits  Mr.  Fisher,  "it 
ain't  so  easy.  I  don't  get  to  him  myself  often, 
and  I'm  assistant  dramatic  ad  manager.  Do  all 
the  press  stuff,  you  know.  But  I  can  tell  you 
how  to  get  as  far  as  Max  Gold,  the  outer  guard. 
If  you  can  get  by  him " 

"Show  me  Max,"  says  I.  "I  have  a  teaspoon- 
ful  of  courage  left,  I  think!" 

So  Budge  led  me  around  four  turns  of  the 
hallway,  through  a  door  marked  "Keep  Out," 
across  a  fire  escape,  and  showed  me  how  to  ring 
for  the  private  elevator.  "Get  off  at  the  top 
floor,"  he  advised,  turn  to  the  left,  and  keep 
going  until  you  come  to  Room  39.  That's 
where  the  great  Morrie  hangs  out." 

And  three  minutes  later  I  was  getting  the  cold 
stare  from  this  aloof  young  party  with  the  oily 
hair  and  the  black  bone  glasses.  But  I  was 
bound  not  to  let  anything  curdle  my  sweet  dis- 
position again,  and  I  put  all  the  friendliness  I 
had  into  that  twisty  smile  of  mine. 

"Where's  Morrie?"  I  cooed  to  him. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  says  the  youth.  "Have  you 
an  appointment  with  Mr.  Klaubert?" 

"Me?"  says  I,  arching  rny  eyebrows.  "Why 
should  I?  No,  no,  Mr.  Gold.  I'm  planning 

30 


TRILBY  MAY  IN  TIMES  SQUARE 

this  as  a  surprise  for  dear  old  Morrie.  Don't 
say  a  word.  I'll  just  slip  in  quietly." 

And  before  he  could  block  me  off  I  had  slid 
past  him,  opened  the  door  lettered  "Private," 
and  had  closed  it  behind  me.  And  there,  with 
one  leg  draped  over  the  arm  of  a  swivel  desk 
chair  is  this  perfectly  nice  man  with  the  cameo 
profile,  the  broad  shoulders  and  the  long,  slen- 
der fingers.  He's  frightfully  busy  making  aim- 
less pencil  marks  on  a  scratch  pad.  He  didn't 
seem  half  as  much  surprised  to  see  me  as  I  had 
expected.  All  he  does  is  glance  up  casually  and 
then  go  on  sketching  nothing  in  particular.  But 
I'd  done  all  the  waiting  around  I  cared  for.  My 
line  was  to  rush  him  off  his  feet  and  I  went  to 
it  strong. 

"What  luck!"  says  I.  "I  simply  know  you're 
going  to  give  me  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  of  your 
precious  time.  I  wouldn't  ask  it  for  myself,  but 
I'm  doing  this  for  a  clever  young  fellow  whose 
work  you're  simply  bound  to  want  sooner  or 
later  and " 

"Oh,  I  say  1"  he  breaks  in. 

"No,  I  can't  leave  it,"  says  I.  "He  wants  me 
to  read  it  to  you.  It's  only  a  short  thing  any- 
way and  I  can  run  through  it  in  twenty  minutes 
or  so.  Awfully  good  of  you,  Mr.  Klaubert, 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"But — but  see  here "  he  protests. 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "You  have  an  important 
conference  on  hand.  The  other  people  are  bound 
to  be  a  little  late,  though,  and  meanwhile — 
Well,  the  title  is  perfectly  bully.  'The  Prince 
and  the  Flapper.'  Isn't  it,  now?  I  was  sure 
you'd  think  so.  And  the  scene  is  laid  on  the 
terrace  of  a  Swiss  hotel  with " 

"I'm  sorry,  young  lady,"  says  he,  starting  to 
get  up. 

I  hope  I  wasn't  rude,  but  I  just  had  to  push 
him  back  in  the  chair.  If  necessary,  I  was  pre- 
pared to  sit  on  him  to  keep  him  quiet.  I  didn't 
quite  get  to  that,  though.  I  merely  stood  near 
enough  to  shove  him  back  if  he  made  another 
move,  and  almost  before  he  knew  it  I  was  gal- 
loping through  the  lines  of  the  first  act.  Twice 
he  squirmed  and  I  reached  for  him,  but  he  didn't 
escape.  The  third  time,  however,  I  thought  he'd 
got  away.  But  he  hadn't. 

"Beg  pardon,"  says  he.  "Leg's  asleep. 
Go  on." 

And  as  he  merely  settles  down  comfortably 
in  the  chair  I  was  able  to  use  both  hands  for  the 
script  and  give  more  time  to  the  reading.  I  did 
it  as  well  as  I  knew  how,  too,  and  I  could  see 
that  the  humor  was  beginning  to  register.  At 
first  he  smiled  rather  patronizingly.  It  was  a 

32 


TRILBY  MAY  IN  TIMES  SQUARE 

nice  smile,  though.  That  is,  he  did  it  with  his 
eyes  as  well  as  his  mouth.  And  the  next  thing 
I  knew  he  was  chuckling.  After  that  I  was  sure 
he  was  following  closely.  The  chuckles  came 
oftener  and  heartier.  Once  he  slapped  his  knee 
enthusiastic,  and  I  was  just  romping  to  the  finish 
when  a  door  at  the  back  of  the  office  swung  open 
and  in  trotted  this  short,  thick  set,  spectacled 
person  who  stopped  to  stare  at  us  with  his  mouth 
open. 

"What  the  devil!"  he  explodes. 

"Just  a  moment,"  says  my  nice  man,  holding 
up  a  warning  hand.  "And  then ?" 

I  went  on  with  the  last  few  lines. 

"Perfectly  ripping!  Thank  you  so  much, 
young  lady,"  says  he. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  like  it,  Mr.  Klaubert,"  says  I. 

"Hear  that,  Morrie?"  says  he.  "I've  been 
holding  down  your  job  for  you.  Doing  it  much 
better  than  you  could  have,  I'll  dare  say,  even 
if  I  was  rather  impressed  into  the  service  against 
my  will." 

"Oh!"  says  I,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 
"Then — then  you're  not  Mr.  Klaubert?" 

"Allow  me,"  says  he,  getting  out  of  the  chair 
and  bowing.  "This  is  the  great  Morris  Klau- 
bert, while  I — well,  you  tell  her,  Morrie." 

"A  loafer,  chiefly,"  says  Klaubert,  appro- 
33 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

priating  the  desk  chair,  "but  at  times  the  most 
temperamental  painter  of  weird  scenery  in  the 
business.  And  now,  Hadley,  if  we  can  get  rid 
of  this  young  woman " 

"But  you  mustn't,  Morrie,"  says  Hadley. 
"At  least,  not  until  you  have  heard  one  of  the 
cleverest  little  comedies  it  has  been  my  privilege 
to  listen  to  in  a  long  while." 

"Bah!"  says  Klaubert.  "You!  What  do  you 
know  about  such  things?  Crazy  interiors  and 
impossible  outside  sets  with  trick  lighting,  yes. 
But  plays!  Hah!" 

Hadley  shrugs  his  shoulders.  "I  stagger 
under  your  scorn,  Morrie,"  says  he.  "Of  course, 
a  mighty  and  discriminating  intelligence  such  as 
yours  is  not  to  be  questioned.  Yet  you  did  turn 
down  'Number,  Please!'  last  season,  didn't  you; 
and  drop  fifty  thousand  in  putting  on  'Once  Upon 
a  Time'?  Eh?  And  here  is  a  delightful  little 
thing  that  could  be " 

"Don't  want  it,  I  tell  you,"  insists  Klaubert. 
"I've  a  trunkful  that  I  brought  back  from  the 
other  side.  Besides,  the  public  doesn't  like  one- 
act  pieces." 

"You  could  work  it  into  a  revue,"  suggests 
Hadley. 

"No,"  says  Klaubert.  "Amateur  stuff,  isn't 
it?  That's  enough." 

34 


TRILBY  MAY  IN  TIMES  SQUARE 

It  looked  as  if  I'd  fliwered  again.  Here  I'd 
begun  my  campaign  by  having  a  row  with  the 
wrong  brother,  and  then  I  had  crashed  into  the 
right  office  only  to  pick  out  another  wrong  one. 
I  had  placed  my  nice  man  now.  He  was  Hadley 
Hall,  who  had  made  such  a  hit  with  his  stage 
settings  for  some  of  the  Guild  plays.  It  was 
kind  of  him  to  praise  Barry's  little  piece,  of 
course,  but  I  couldn't  see  that  it  was  going  to  do 
much  good. 

"All  right,"  says  I,  folding  up  the  manuscript. 
"If  Mr.  Klaubert  has  made  up  his  mind  there's 
no  use  in  my  sticking  around  and  being  a  nui- 
sance. Sorry  I  made  such  a  stupid  mistake,  but 
I'm  awfully  green  at  this  sort  of  thing.  Perhaps 
I'd  better  quit." 

"Don't  you  do  it,  young  lady,"  says  Hadley. 
"You're  all  right.  And  if  Klaubert  here  wasn't 
such  a  stubborn  old  bonehead  he'd  take  my  word 
for  it  that  your  friend's  play  was  worth  while." 

"Huh  I"  sneers  Klaubert.  "You're  at  liberty 
to  back  your  own  judgment,  you  know,  Hadley. 
Why  not  put  it  on  yourself  if  it's  such  a  gem?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do,  Morrie,"  says  he. 
"I'll  bet  you  an  even  five  hundred  that  I  can  get 
it  put  on." 

"Oh,  by  some  settlement  house  players  per- 
haps," says  Klaubert. 

35 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"What  of  it?"  asks  Hadley.  "I'll  add  to  the 
terms  that  it  comes  uptown  to  take  the  place  of 
one  of  your  imported  failures  before  New 
Years."  ' 

"You're  on,  Hadley,"  says  Klaubert.  "I  sup- 
pose you'll  hang  that  much  on  your  next  contract 
if  you  lose,  though.  How  do  you  mean  to 
work  it?" 

"IVe  just  thought,"  says  Hadley.  "I'm  going 
to  do  a  perfectly  corking  setting  for  this  piece. 
Have  it  all  planned — hotel  terrace  in  the  fore- 
ground, bare  and  simple;  but  beyond,  just  over 
the  stone  balustrade,  an  illusion  of  space.  Do 
you  get  it?  That  wonderful  shimmery  blue  of 
the  Swiss  twilight  stretching  out  and  away,  miles 
and  miles,  to  the  Jungfrau  rising  majestic  and 
solemn  in  the  distance.  It'll  make  'em  dizzy  just 
to  glance  at  it,  and  it  will  give  exactly  the  right 
contrast  to  those  whimsical  lines.  There's 
an  exiled  king  who's  been  recalled  but  who 
wants  to  keep  on  playing  golf,  and  an  ex-prince 
who's  having  the  time  of  his  life  as  a  head 
waiter.  Then  there's  that  delicious  flapper 
from  Buffalo— but  why  waste  words  on  you, 
Morris?" 

"You've  said  it,"  says  Klaubert.  "I  don't 
see  anything  in  it.  But  if  you  could  settle  down 
to  anything  so  commonplace  as  planning  a 

36 


TRILBY  MAY  IN  TIMES  SQUARE 

$10,000  set  for  the  closing  number  of  'Oh,  Su- 
sanna,' I  should  like  to  get  to  work." 

"Tomorrow,  perhaps,"  says  Hadley.  "I'm 
not  in  the  mood  now.  Head's  too  full  of  other 
things.  And  if  you'll  excuse  us,  maybe, 
Miss — er " 

"Dodge,"  says  I. 

"Ah,  thank  you,"  says  he.  "Can  you  come 
down  to  my  shop,  Miss  Dodge?  I'd  like  to  have 
you  run  over  that  again,  so  that  I  can  visualize 
the  scenes  better,  and  then"  I'll  just  dash  off  a  few 
sketches  while  the  impressions  are  clear.  Eh? 
Got  the  time?" 

"I'm  long  on  time,"  says  I. 

And  I  could  hardly  wait  until  six-thirty  that 
night  to  get  Barry  Platt  on  the  'phone.  "What 
do  you  think  I've  done,  Barry?"  I  asked. 

"The  first  day?"  says  he.  "Well,  let's  see. 
Talked  with  Morris  Klaubert's  secretary,  have 
you?" 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "Klaubert!  He's  no  good. 
I  spent  an  hour  or  more  in  his  private  office. 
But  say,  you  know  Ames  Hunt?" 

"Manager  of  the  Players?"  says  he. 

"Uh-huh!"  says  I.     "He's  heard  the  Prince 

piece.     I  read  it  to  him  while  he  was  eating 

sweitzer  sandwiches   in  Hadley  Hall's  studio. 

Hadley's  painting  the  scenery  for  it.    Oh,  sure  I 

4  37 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

Ames  Hunt  is  going  to  feature  your  piece  in  his 
new  show.  You're  to  drop  down  tomorrow  and 
sign  the  contract." 

I  could  hear  Barry  gasp.  Then,  after  he  gets 
his  breath,  he  remarks  excited:  "Honest?  Well, 
I'll  say  you're  a  whizz,  Trilby  May.  If  you 
were  close  enough  I — I'd " 

"No,  Barry,"  says  I.  "Your  next  move  will 
be  to  write  out  a  check  for  my  commission.  Oh, 
well!  Perhaps  we  will  celebrate  with  a  little 
dinner  somewhere — with  Inez  for  a  chaperone. 
Sh-h-h !  She's  only  in  the  next  room,  you  know." 

Some  of  which  must  have  hit  Inez  in  the  ear. 
"Hey?"  she  calls  out.  "Somebody  want  me ?" 

"No,  Inez,"  says  I.  "You're  not  being  paged; 
just  being  mentioned  as  a  possibility." 

"Oh !"  says  Inez  satisfied,  and  lapses  back  into 
the  gum  habit, 


Chapter  III 
Subbing  in  for  Gloria 

"TUST  think!"  says  Barry  Platt. 
J        "Uh-huh  I"  says  I.    "I'm  trying  to." 

And  I  was.  But  I  couldn't  quite  work  up  the 
rosy  pink  thoughts  that  were  going  on  under 
Barry's  slick  light  hair  and  registering  in  the 
flickery  smile  he  wore.  They  even  beamed  from 
his  blue  eyes. 

"The  rehearsals  have  begun,"  he  adds.  "Ames 
Hunt  thought  I'd  better  not  come  down  at  first. 
They  just  read  their  lines  to  start  with.  But  by 
tomorrow  they  ought  to  know  them  fairly  well, 
and  I'm  to  be  there.  You,  too,  Trilby  May. 
You  must  come  along." 

"Me?"  says  I.  "I'd  be  a  great  help, 
wouldn't  I?" 

"But  you're  the  one  who  got  it  put  on,"  insists 
Barry.  "Besides,  I  want  you  to  hear  how  it 
sounds  and  tell  me  how  you  think  it's  going. 
And  anyway,  you're  the  only  one  who  really 
knows  what  this  means  to  me." 

At  which  I  looks  across  at  Inez  to  see  If  this 
39 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

gets  her  at  all  green  in  the  eyes.  It  doesn't.  In 
fact  she  is  wrapped  in  that  after-dinner  calm 
which  nothing  less  than  an  earthquake  would  dis- 
turb. But  she  is  dimly  conscious  that  something 
important  is  being  discussed. 

"They  gonna  play  that  piece  you  read?"  she 
asks.  "On  the  stage  ?" 

Barry  nods  enthusiastic.  ;  'The  Prince  and 
the  Flapper,'  you  know,"  says  he. 

"Huhl"  says  Inez.  Then  she  yawns,  heaves 
herself  up  from  the  easy  chair,  and  drifts  into 
the  next  room  to  wind  the  music  machine  and 
put  on  a  new  jazz  record. 

"It's  her  way  of  expressing  how  thrilled  she  is," 
I  explains.  "She  has  such  an  emotional  nature." 

But  Barry  is  soaring  too  high  to  be  affected 
by  little  things  like  that.  He  merely  shrugs  his 
shoulders.  "I  haven't  told  you  the  best  yet,"  he 
goes  on.  "Who  do  you  suppose  they've  engaged 
to  play  the  Flapper?" 

"Billy  Burke,"  is  my  guess. 

"No  joshing,"  says  Barry.  "Listen:  Ames 
Hunt  has  found  the  real  thing.  Gloria  Whit- 
ney!" 

"Sounds  genuine,"  says  I,  "but  I'm  afraid  I 
don't  locate  Gloria.  Has  she  been  in  the  movies, 
or  what?" 

Barry  looks  shocked.  "She's  never  been  any- 
40 


SUBBING  IN  FOR  GLORIA 

where  before,"  says  he,  "except  at  Newport  and 
Monte  Carlo  and  Palm  Beach  and  places  like 
that.  Her  mother  is  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  Breese 
Whitney — the  Mrs.  Whitney — and  an  older  sis- 
ter is  the  Countess  de  Grau.  Of  course,  Gloria 
has  been  in  amateur  things — school  plays,  pag- 
eants, charity  shows  and  so  on.  They  say  she's 
clever,  too.  No  one  but  Ames  Hunt,  though, 
would  have  had  the  nerve  to  have  asked  her  to 
go  on  as  a  professional.  Trust  him!  He  goes 
after  what  he  wants.  'For  this  flapper  part,'  he 
told  me,  'we  must  have  the  real,  right  thing,  as 
Henry  James  put  it.  I  mean  to  get  one,  too.' 
And  next  day  he  wires  Gloria  Whitney.  She  left 
a  Newport  house  party  to  come  on  and  sign  up. 
How  about  that?" 

I  got  as  excited  over  the  news  as  I  could  with- 
out turning  a  handspring,  and  listened  to  other 
intimate  details  about  the  production  with  almost 
human  intelligence,  I  hope.  For  while  I  had 
gone  out  and  placed  the  piece  for  Barry,  I'd 
pulled  it  off  more  or  less  by  accident  and  what 
I  still  had  to  learn  about  the  stage  was  a  heap. 
Especially  drama  as  it  is  done  south  of  Jefferson 
Market.  If  you  must  know,  too,  it  was  nearly 
all  new  to  Barry  boy;  but  he  was  passing  it  on  to 
me  as  though  it  was  something  he  had  inhaled 
with  his  first  cigarette. 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Hunt  has  sent  for  O.  P.  Biggs  to  do  the 
King,"  goes  on  Barry.  "Did  some  good  work 
in  stock  last  season  at  the  Hollis  Street,  Boston, 
but  of  course  he'll  jump  at  a  chance  to  get  to 
New  York.  Then  for  the  Prince  we  have  one 
of  Hunt's  discoveries — a  chap  by  the  name  of 
Sczernoff — Russian,  I  believe.  I've  forgotten 
just  where  Ames  dug  him  up,  but  he  has  a  speak- 
ing voice  like  Tyrone  Power's  and  looks  some- 
thing like  Jack  Barrymore.  Isn't  that  corking?" 

I  admitted  that  it  was.  I  raved  over  the 
scenery  which  Hadley  Hall  was  painting.  And 
we  sat  there  on  the  big  davenport  under  a  parch- 
ment shaded  electrolier  and  talked  and  talked. 
That  is,  Barry  did.  He  was  full  of  conversation, 
and  I  let  it  bubble  along  until  he  began  to  get 
personal.  I  could  see  it  coming  by  the  look  in 
his  eyes. 

"And  I  shall  never  forget,  Trilby  May,"  he 
begins,  "that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you " 

"Yes,  I  get  you,  Barry,"  says  I. 

"But,  really,"  he  insists,  "it  almost  seems 
as  if " 

"Uh-huh!"  I  breaks  in.  "When  you  were  a 
Wollygumpus  and  I  was  your  pet  Gazoo.  All 
down  the  ages  we've  been  meeting  and  parting, 
from  Babylon  to  Bayonne.  But  just  now  it's 
after  u  P.M.,  Barry,  and  I  hear  Inez  yawning 

42 


SUBBING  IN  FOR  GLORIA 

her  head  off  in  the  next  room.  Not  that  I  want 
to  throw  out  any  hints,  but " 

"Doggone  it!"  grumbles  Barry,  reaching  for 
his  hat. 

Inez  was  quite  cordial  in  bidding  him  good- 
night. And  as  the  door  closed  she  remarked: 
"He  talk  all  time  about  the  play,  eh?" 

"Mostly,"  says  I,  "although  there  was  one 
other  subject  touched  on." 

"Huh !"  says  she,  indulging  in  another  yawn. 

"Odd,  isn't  it,"  says  I,  "but  that's  not  the  way 
I  feel  about  it  at  all?" 

I  failed  to  confess,  though,  that  there  was 
something  else  I  should  have  done  next  fore- 
noon, besides  go  with  Barry  to  the  rehearsal. 
I'd  heard  of  a  perfectly  good  job  as  secretary- 
bookkeeper  in  an  automobile  sundries  house  and 
I  really  ought  to  have  been  trailing  around  there 
to  find  out  about  it.  Perhaps  it  would  keep  for 
another  day,  though.  Anyway,  I  took  a  chance 
and  let  Barry  lead  me  down  to  this  Sheridan 
Square  Theatre  where  I  took  my  first  plunge 
through  a  stage  entrance. 

We  were  both  prepared  to  be  thrilled,  I  ex- 
pect, but  we  soon  found  that  an  early  rehearsal 
is  rather  a  draggy  affair.  Only  a  few  people 
were  scattered  around  the  bare  stage  and  none 
of  them  seemed  very  busy.  They  were  just 

43 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

standing  about  looking  bored.  A  stout,  moth- 
erly looking  woman  was  perched  on  a  property 
rock  smoking  a  cigarette ;  and  a  tall,  lean,  dark- 
eyed  man  was  lounging  in  the  wings  reading  a 
race  track  dope  sheet  by  a  poor  light.  Finally 
a  thin,  nervous  acting  chap  with  a  long  nose  and 
huge  bone-rimmed  eyeglasses  hustled  in  from 
somewhere  and  hailed  Barry.  He  proved  to  be 
the  great  Ames  Hunt. 

"Ah,  Platt  I"  says  he.  "Sorry  you  came  today. 
We're  not  getting  on  very  well.  And  Miss 
Whitney  is  late  again.  She'll  show  up  soon  I 
suppose  and  we'll  get  going.  If  you  have  any 
suggestions  just  shoot  them  over." 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  protests  Barry.  "Miss  Dodge 
and  I  will  camp  around  somewhere  out  of  the 
way  and  look  on,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Help  yourself,"  says  Mr.  Hunt.  "Any- 
where." 

So  Barry  and  I  groped  our  way  down  to  some 
seats  in  about  the  middle  of  the  empty  auditorium 
and  waited,  whispering  a  word  now  and  then,  but 
chiefly  straining  our  eyes  and  holding  our  breath. 
It  was  nearly  half  an  hour  longer,  though,  before 
this  wispy,  big-eyed  young  person  with  the  very 
short  shirt  and  the  wonderful  silver  fox  neck- 
piece came  bouncing  in.  Gloria  Whitney,  of 
course. 

44 


SUBBING  IN  FOR  GLORIA 

"Are  you  going  to  be  frightfully  cross  with 
me,  Mr.  Hunt?"  she  asked.  "If  you  are,  let's 
have  it  over  with,  but  I  simply  couldn't  get  here 
a  moment  sooner.  Really!  Two  long  distance 
calls  and  a  maid  who  will  not  let  me  go  out  unless 
she  can  spend  just  so  much  time  on  my  hair.  But  I 
think  I'm  well  up  on  the  lines.  Shall  we  start?" 

Ames  Hunt  said  that  they  would.  And  they 
did.  They  made  several  starts,  in  fact,  but  none 
of  them  quite  suited  Mr.  Hunt.  He  was  rather 
patient  about  it,  I  thought,  but  he  would  insist 
that  Miss  Whitney  stick  to  the  script,  instead  of 
improvising. 

"But  it  means  just  the  same,  doesn't  it?"  she 
pouted. 

"Almost,"  admitted  Mr.  Hunt,  "but  I  think 
it  would  be  better  to  give  the  lines  exactly  as  they 
have  been  written.  Now  again." 

So  the  leading  lady  who  was  the  real  thing 
made  another  try.  It  was  surprising,  though, 
what  a  change  came  over  her  when  she  began  to 
recite  her  part.  As  Gloria  Whitney  she  had 
been  full  of  exactly  the  right  kind  of  pert  vivac- 
ity. She  could  use  her  eyes  and  her  shoulders 
and  her  fingers  to  give  emphasis  and  point  to 
whatever  she  had  to  say.  She  was  a  sub-deb 
vamp  from  the  tip  of  her  expensive  pumps  to  the 
chic  little  feather  on  her  Paris  toque. 

45 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

But  as  The  Flapper  she  was  quite  different. 
She  got  stiff  and  wooden.  She  was  as  vivacious 
as  a  plume  on  a  hearse.  Her  elbows  stuck  out 
and  her  feet  toed  in,  and  she  couldn't  make  her 
voice  behave.  She  watched  the  other  players 
for  her  cues  as  eager  as  a  puppy  waiting  for  a 
bone  to  be  tossed  to  him,  and  she  put  about  as 
much  expression  into  her  lines  as  an  Erie  train 
announcer  calling  off  the  stations  on  the  Oradell 
local.  Ames  Hunt  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
long  forelock  and  went  through  other  agonized 
motions,  but  he  couldn't  seem  to  get  her  to  do 
any  different. 

Barry  was  squirming  about  in  his  chair,  almost 
as  though  somebody  was  jabbing  him  gentle  with 
pins,  but  he  didn't  know  exactly  what  to  do  about 
it.  Finally,  though,  when  Gloria  proceeded  to 
murder  in  cold  blood  one  of  the  Flapper's  clever- 
est speeches,  he  half  jumped  from  his  chair  and 
groaned  out,  "Oh,  I  say!" 

Everybody  heard  him,  including  Ames  Hunt. 
"Well?"  asks  Mr.  Hunt,  stepping  down  to  the 
footlights  and  staring  out  into  the  gloom. 

"If  Miss  Whitney  will  pardon  me,"  says 
Barry,  "I — er — I  think  perhaps  she  might  do 
that  a  bit  differently." 

"Who  is  that  person,  may  I  ask?"  demands 
Gloria. 

46 


SUBBING  IN  FOR  GLORIA 

"Only  the  author,"  apologizes  Ames  Hunt. 

"Oh !"  says  she.    "Must  he  remain  ?" 

"It  is  quite  usual,"  says  Mr.  Hunt.  "And  if 
you  don't  mind,  Miss  Whitney,  we  will  get  him 
to  come  up  here  and  give  us  his  ideas.  They're 
often  helpful,  you  know.  Come,  Platt." 

"I— I  couldn't,"  stammers  Barry.     "Really." 

"Sure  you  can,"  I  whispers,  nudging  him. 
"You  must." 

But  if  I  hadn't  half  dragged  him  he'd  never 
have  budged.  Even  after  I'd  got  him  up  there 
he  protests  that  he  can't  tell  anybody  how  to 
read  the  lines,  but  only  knows  when  they  don't 
sound  right. 

"Helps  a  lot,  doesn't  it?"  says  Gloria,  tossing 
her  chin.  "If  I  was  a  mind  reader  now " 

At  which  Barry  goes  pink  in  the  ears  and 
starts  scraping  his  right  toe.  He  doesn't  funk  it 
absolutely,  though.  After  a  painful  minute  or 
so  he  turns  to  Ames  Hunt.  "I  say,"  says  he, 
"couldn't  you — that  is,  would  it  be  all  right  if 
Trilby  May — er,  Miss  Dodge,  here,  should  do 
that  speech  once?  She  gets  exactly  my  idea  of 
it  and — er " 

"Very  well,"  says  Mr.  Hunt.  "If  Miss  Dodge 
will  oblige?"  And  he  hands  me  the  prompt 
script. 

"Me?"  says  I.    "Why,  I'm  no  actress." 
47 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"What  charming  modesty!"  comments  Miss 
Whitney. 

"I  was  born  with  it,"  says  I.  "Some  aren't, 
you  know." 

"Some  would  be  absurd  without  it,"  she  snaps 
back. 

"How  well  we  agree?"  says  I,  springing  my 
crooked  smile  at  her. 

They  tell  me  that's  the  most  maddening  thing 
I  do  in  an  argument.  Anyway,  it  had  Gloria 
biting  her  upper  lip. 

"But  surely,"  breaks  in  Ames  Hunt,  "if  the 
author  has  a  vicarious  suggestion  to  make,  we 
may  listen  to  it.  Go  on,  Miss  Dodge." 

"Please,  Trilby  May,"  adds  Barry. 

Well,  there  I  was,  an  innocent  young  thing 
from  Minnesota,  with  no  experience  except  a 
few  appearances  in  Tamarack  Junction,  sur- 
rounded by  real  actors,  and  with  perhaps  the 
most  critical  stage  manager  in  the  business  look- 
ing on,  not  to  mention  the  sister  of  the  Countess 
de  Grau.  But  there  was  Barry,  too,  a  pleading 
look  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  well!"  says  I.  "I've  never  been  a  Flap- 
per talking  to  a  Prince,  but  if  I  was  I  think  I 
should  do  it  something  like  this." 

And  say,  I  put  all  the  zipp  I  had  into  that 
speech.  I'll  admit  I  was  scared  blue  inside,  but 

48 


SUBBING  IN  FOR  GLORIA 

I  didn't  let  that  bother  me.  I  hardly  looked  at 
the  script,  either,  for  I'd  been  over  the  thing  so 
many  times  with  Barry  that  I  almost  knew  it  by 
heart.  And  the  first  thing  I  knew  I  was  letting 
myself  go,  getting  my  eyes  and  arms  and  shoul- 
ders into  it,  and  cuddling  up  to  this  Russian  per- 
son as  coy  as  though  we  were  out  on  the  front 
porch  in  the  moonlight. 

"Perfectly  bully!"  says  Ames  Hunt,  patting 
me  on  the  shoulder.  "Precisely  my  idea,  too. 
Now,  Miss  Whitney,  see  if  you  can't  make  it  go 
something  like  that.  I'm  sure  you  can.  Let's 
try." 

"Thank  you,"  says  Gloria,  "but  I  don't  think 
I  care  to." 

/'Beg  pardon?"  says  Mr.  Hunt,  lifting  his  eye- 
brows. 

"I  don't  mind  in  the  least  being  coached  by 
you,  Mr.  Hunt,"  says  Gloria,  "but  if  you're 
going  to  call  on  anyone  who  happens  to  be  stand- 
ing around — well,  that's  a  little  too  much.  Why 
not  ask  in  some  shop  girl  or  a  tearoom  waitress? 
They'd  do  it  much  after  that  fashion,  I  think." 

But  there's  a  good  deal  of  pepper  in  Ames 
Hunt's  cosmos,  after  all.  "Wholly  uncalled  for, 
Miss  Whitney,"  he  remarks  crisp.  "And  if  you 
will  permit  me  to  point  out " 

"I'll  not  I"   says   Gloria.      "I— I   don't   care 
49 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

to  hear  another  word.  I — I'm.  through  with  this 
stupid  old  play.  Through  I  And  I — I " 

Well,  it  was  a  regular  tantrum  she  went  into, 
including  foot  stamping,  tears  and  the  whole  bag 
of  tricks.  And  she  finished  by  throwing  the  ex- 
pensive silver  fox  fur  around  her  neck  and  dash- 
ing out  to  the  limousine,  her  high  heels  clicking 
defiance  as  she  went. 

"I'm  sorry,"  says  I. 

"Oh,  it  was  due,"  says  Ames  Hunt,  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  "She  wouldn't  have  done,  any- 
way. My  mistake.  Oh,  I  make  'em.  But  they 
don't  leave  me  wholly  crushed.  I  still  believe 
there's  a  Santa  Claus.  And  I  have  someone  else 
in  mind  for  the  part." 

At  which  the  motherly  lady  wants  to  know  if 
the  rehearsal  is  off  for  the  day.  If  it  is 

"Not  at  all,"  says  Ames  Hunt.  "A  few  of  us 
are  left.  And  I'm  going  to  ask  Miss  Dodge  to 
finish  reading  the  Flapper's  lines.  Will  you?" 

"I'll  make  a  try  at  it,"  says  I. 

It  was  barely  that  for  a  while.  I  was  more 
or  less  fussed  when  they  all  got  into  action  and 
three  or  four  times  I  either  cut  in  too  soon  or 
was  late  catching  my  cue.  But  Mr.  Hunt  talked 
soothing  to  me,  told  me  to  take  it  easy,  and  be- 
fore we  finished  I  was  going  strong  once  more 
and  rather  enjoying  the  work.  That's  what  the 

50 


SUBBING  IN  FOR  GLORIA 

actors  call  it,  you  know,  and  I'd  always  rather 
smiled  when  I  heard  the  word  used  that  way. 
But  now  I  know  that  they're  right.  It  is  work, 
and  good  hard  work  at  that.  I  was  as  trembly 
and  as  excited  when  it  was  over  as  if  I'd  been  in 
a  shipwreck  or  a  subway  smash.  Tired,  too. 
And  at  the  end  the  Russian  came  up  to  me  and 
shook  hands. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  says  he. 

And  I'm  afraid  all  I  did  was  to  stare  at  him 
with  my  mouth  open. 

Then  Ames  Hunt  beckoned  me  to  the  front  of 
the  stage,  where  he  and  Barry  had  been  talking 
confidential.  "Young  woman,"  says  he,  "what 
have  you  been  doing  before  this?" 

"Oh,  a  lot  of  useful  things,"  says  I,  "such  as 
tending  a  soft-drink  booth,  demonstrating  elec- 
tric washers,  and  managing  a  Greenwich  Village 
cafe.  Nothing  to  bring  me  before  a  grand  jury, 
I  trust." 

"And  just  at  present?"  he  goes  on. 

"Job  hunting,"  says  I. 

"Don't  tell  me,  Miss  Dodge,"  says  he,  "that 
you  haven't  been  secretly  yearning  to  go  on  the 
stage." 

"Me  ?"  says  I.  "Oh,  come,  Mr.  Hunt,  you  don't 
think  I  could  kid  myself  that  much,  do  you?" 

He  stares  at  me  suspicious.  "You  are  either 
51 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

quite  subtle,  or  an  extremely  rare  type,"  says  he, 
shaking  his  head.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know  which. 
But  we  have  decided  to  give  you  a  try-out  as  the 
Flapper." 

Perhaps  I  should  have  guessed  what  he  was 
leading  up  to,  but  I  didn't.  So  I  suppose  I 
stared  back  at  him  just  as  lifelike  as  two  poached 
eggs  on  a  platter. 

"Not — not  truly?"  says  I. 

He  nods.  "Platt  believes  you  can  do  the  part 
to  perfection,"  says  Mr.  Hunt. 

"Oh,  Barry !"  says  I.    "He's  no  judge." 

"They  tell  me  I  am,  however,"  said  Ames 
Hunt,  "although  at  times  I  am  inclined  to  doubt 
it.  Still,  I've  made  something  of  a  record  along 
that  line,  you  know.  And  I  agree  heartily  with 
Platt.  At  least,  I'm  willing  to  chance  it.  I 
think  with  the  proper  drilling  you'd  be  a  knock- 
out in  the  part." 

"That's  real  nice  of  you,"  says  I,  "but  you 
haven't  seen  me  in  a  good  light  yet.  Not  that 
I'm  crazy  about  handing  myself  any  poor  words, 
but  I'm  afraid  I'd  hardly  qualify  as  a  sweet 
young  thing.  Not  with  my  carroty  hair,  goose- 
berry eyes,  and  general  lack  of  curves.  Unless 
you  mean  to  have  Barry  rewrite  the  piece  and 
make  his  Prince  color  blind." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  protests  Barry.  "You're  per- 
52 


SUBBING  IN  FOR  GLORIA 

fectly  all  right,  Trilby  May,  just  as  you  are. 
Isn't  she,  Mr.  Hunt?" 

Which  gets  a  smile  out  of  Amos  Hunt,  of 
course.  "Anyway,"  says  he,  "Miss  Dodge  has 
vocal  organs  which  she  can  use  rather  effectively, 
she  has  rather  more  intelligence  than  we  are  apt 
to  find,  and  with  these  gifts  to  start  on  I  think 
we  may  trust  to  the  wigmaker  and  the  make-up 
box  for  the  rest." 

So  I  gave  in.  "But  it's  going  to  put  a  strain 
on  the  beauty  shop,  I'll  say,"  says  I. 

"Flappers  is  as  flappers  does,"  says  Mr.  Hunt. 
"We  can  make  a  grandmother  look  like  one,  but 
to  talk  and  move  and  create  a  convincing  flapper 
illusion,  that  is  an  art.  You'll  need  to  work  hard 
and  fast,  though,  Miss  Dodge,  for  we  intend  to 
open  two  weeks  from  Monday." 

I  nodded  as  careless  as  I  could,  just  as  though 
this  was  nothing  in  my  young  life.  Pooh  1  This 
morning  I  was  wondering  if  I  couldn't  break  in 
as  somebody's  secretary  at  maybe  twenty-five  a 
week,  and  before  lunch  time  I'm  promising  to  go 
on  as  one  of  Ames  Hunt's  stars.  Just  like  that. 
But  as  I  wandered  out  into  the  sunlight  with 
Barry  and  figured  how  short  two  weeks  could  be 
I'll  admit  I  got  a  bit  wabbly  in  the  knees.  So  I 
didn't  mind  if  Barry  was  tucking  one  arm  under 
my  left  elbow  rather  folksy. 
5  53 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"I've  got  a  new  name  for  you,  Trilby  May," 
he  whispers. 

"Miss  Brodie  Bluff?"  I  asks. 

"No,"  says  he.  "The  perfect  pal.  That's 
what  you  are,  you  know.  I  wish  I'd  had  sense 
enough  to  have  seen  it,  months  ago.  But  I'm 
wise  to  it  now.  I  have  felt  all  along  that " 

"Check!"  says  I.  "I  get  the  picture.  When 
you  are  Sir  Barry  Goofus  and  I  have  a  talcum 
powder  named  after  me.  Pretty,  pretty!  But 
just  now  I  feel  like  I'd  sneaked  up  on  an  airplane, 
got  the  motor  going,  and  was  discovering  that  I 
didn't  know  how  to  fly  the  blamed  thing." 

"Oh,  you'll  come  through  all  right,"  says 
Barry. 

"Anyway,"  says  I,  "I  mean  to  make  a  stagger 
at  being  the  Happiest  flapper  ever  put  on  the 
stage.  If  I  crash  it  won't  be  because  I  was 
afraid  to  step  on  the  gas." 


Chapter  IV 
How  Inez  Called  the  Turn 

YOU  know  how  it  is  when  you've  had  a  lucky 
break?  Even  if  it's  only  something  you've 
pulled  accidental,  like  winning  out  in  a  raffle,  or 
being  promoted  at  the  office  because  somebody 
has  quit  sudden.  Whether  you  deserve  it  or  not, 
the  fact  remains  that  you've  landed,  and  you 
can't  help  feeling  a  little  puffy  in  the  chest.  But 
the  big  moment  comes  when  you  spring  it  on  the 
folks  at  home. 

That  is,  it  should.  So  when  I  strolled  back 
to  the  apartment,  after  having  been  picked  by 
Ames  Hunt  to  play  the  Flapper  part  in  Barry's 
play,  I  expect  I  was  wearing  my  chin  high  and 
stepping  firm  on  my  rubber  heels.  Of  course,  the 
only  ones  I  could  reckon  as  home  folks  were 
Uncle  Nels  and  Inez.  Counting  on  them  in  that 
role  was  stretching  it  a  bit,  I  don't  deny,  but 
when  you're  a  runaway  double  orphan  you  can't 
be  choosey  about  such  things.  So  I  tried  to 
break  it  to  'em  as  modest  as  I  knew  how. 

Inez  was  the  first  to  get  a  glimmer.  "Hey?" 
55 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

says  she.  "You  mean  you  gonna  be  talk  actress 
on  the  stage?" 

Not  that  I  was  crazy  about  her  way  of  dis- 
tinguishing a  movie  person  from  a  real  actress, 
but  I  nodded  enthusiastic. 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.    "You!" 

"Why  so  flattering?"  says  I.  "But  I  don't 
wonder  at  the  tone,  Inez.  That's  a  good  deal 
the  way  I  felt  about  it  myself  at  first.  Who 
would  have  thought,  hardly  a  year  ago,  when  we 
were  juggling  ice  cream  orders  and  soft  drinks 
on  Superior  Street,  Duluth,  that  I  would  ever 
make  a  broad  jump  like  this  ?  And  in  a  star  part, 
too?" 

For  one  thoughtful  moment  Inez  relaxes  her 
rhythmic  assault  on  the  spearmint  and  lets  her 
calm  gray  eyes  rest  on  me  curious.  "You — you 
get  your  name  printed?"  she  asks. 

"Absolutely,"  says  I.  "On  the  billboards  out- 
side, probably;  anyway  on  the  programs  and  in 
the  newspapers;  and  if  the  thing  makes  a  hit 
later  on  and  we  move  uptown,  maybe  you'll  see 
Trilby  May  Dodge  spelled  out  in  electric  lights. 
How  about  that?" 

But  Inez  hasn't  such  a  frisky  imagination.  She 
simply  gawps  and  shakes  her  head.  "I  gotta  see 
it  first,"  says  she. 

Which  gives  Uncle  Nels  a  chance  to  come  in. 
56 


HOW  INEZ  CALLED  THE  TURN 

"You  don't  get  paid  for  doin'  that  play  actin'?" 
he  asks. 

"Real  money,"  says  I.  "More  than  I  ever 
dreamed  I'd  be  getting  a  week." 

He  wags  his  gray  head  and  squints  at  me  from 
his  shrewd  eyes.  "Lotta  fools  ain't  dead  yet, 
eh?"  says  he. 

"No,"  says  I,  "and  some  haven't  discovered 
what  beanless  old  pests  they  are,  either." 

This  doesn't  register  with  Uncle  Nels  at  all, 
for  he  just  blinks  satisfied  and  goes  on  pruning 
his  nails  with  the  young  tool-shop  he  carries 
moored  to  his  right  forward  suspender  by  a  steel 
chain.  It's  one  of  the  tall  timber  tricks  I've  tried 
to  break  him  of,  without  any  success.  I  had 
already  pointed  out  to  Inez  that  nail  trimming 
wasn't  a  parlor  pastime  practiced  in  the  best 
circles,  but  I  couldn't  get  her  to  drop  a  hint  to 
the  old  boy. 

"If  he  don't,  he  whittle,"  Inez  has  said. 
"Likes  to  show  off  his  knife." 

It  was  more  than  a  knife,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 
It  was  a  whole  carpenter's  outfit — sixteen  blades, 
I  believe,  including  a  saw,  screwdriver,  a  gimlet 
and  I  don't  know  what  else.  Given  that  weapon 
and  a  set  of  plans,  any  handy  man  could  build  a 
house,  or  dig  a  well,  or  scuttle  a  battleship.  It 
had  a  pearl  handle  and  a  ring  in  one  end,  and 

57 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

must  have  weighed  a  couple  of  pounds.  Uncle 
Nels  had  seen  it  in  a  store  window,  gone  back 
to  view  it  for  three  days  in  succession  before 
he  dared  price  it,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week 
had  worked  up  enough  courage  to  buy  it.  I'll 
bet  it  hurt,  at  that,  for  when  it  comes  to  little 
things,  such  as  spending  real  money  for  a  hair- 
cut or  a  new  necktie,  he's  as  hard  boiled  as  a 
picnic  egg.  Yet  he'll  write  a  fifteen-hundred- 
dollar  check  for  a  month's  rent  for  this  de  luxe 
apartment  without  batting  an  eyelash.  Odd 
old  codger. 

But  when  Annette — the  Montreal  French 
maid  who  has  been  induced  to  join  our  entourage 
and  do  Inez'  hair  and  keep  her  hooked  up  in  the 
back — when  Annette  caught  sight  of  Uncle  Nels 
doing  his  pruning  acts  she  shivered,  clear  from 
her  high  heels  to  her  shoulder  blades. 

"Eet  ees  not  nice,  zat!"  says  she. 

"Hey?"  says  Inez. 

"For  river  drivers,  yes,"  goes  on  Annette, 
"but  for  gentlemens — bas  non!  I  will  do  heem 
manicure." 

She  got  as  far  as  soaking  one  hand  in  warm 
soapsuds  and  starting  to  reveal  the  half  moons 
when  Uncle  Nels,  who  had  gone  red  in  the  ears, 
broke  away.  "Tarn  foolishness!"  he  declared, 
and  although  Inez  backed  up  Annette  strong, 

58 


HOW  INEZ  CALLED  THE  TURN 

and  I  added  a  word  here  and  there,  the  three  of 
us  have  had  to  give  up. 

She's  proving  a  great  help  in  many  ways, 
though,  Annette.  She  has  reformed  Inez  from 
doing  her  wheat-colored  hair  in  a  double  braid 
and  winding  it  around  her  head  as  if  she  was 
preparing  to  balance  a  basket  of  fish  on  it.  Also 
she  restrains  her  from  getting  on  some  of  the 
vivid  color  combinations  she's  so  fond  of,  and  she 
has  nearly  broken  her  from  taking  a  Babe  Ruth 
grip  on  her  fork  when  she  tackles  steak.  Other 
little  things,  too.  And  while  Inez  began  by  order- 
ing her  about  rather  brisk,  she's  coming  to  be  more 
like  a  new  pupil  who's  afraid  of  the  teacher. 

At  first  Annette  looked  on  me,  I  blush  to  say, 
with  a  good  deal  of  scorn.  She  had  me  framed 
for  a  poor  relation  who  might  or  might  not  be 
paying  her  board.  But  when  she  caught  the  news 
that  I  was  about  to  become  an  actress  all  was 
changed.  Annette  began  to  smile  on  me,  offered 
to  do  my  hair,  and  secretly  tempted  me  with  one 
of  her  own  cork-tipped  cigarettes. 

"Mees  Trilby  will  have  coffee  and  rolls  in  bed, 
yes?"  she  asked. 

"None  of  that  10  A.M.  boudoir  day-journey 
stuff  for  me,"  says  I.  "Thanks  all  the  same, 
Annette,  but  I've  got  to  get  something  more  over 
the  footlights  than  just  my  ankles  and  a  few 

59 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

vampish  hip  motions.  Mine  is  a  regular  job  and 
I'm  none  too  sure  I  can  get  away  with  it.  So  it's 
me  for  an  early  fall  from  the  feathers." 

And  honest,  I  went  into  training  like  I  was  due 
to  meet  a  world  champ,  in  the  ring.  Uh-huh. 
By  the  time  the  sun  was  lighting  up  the  top  of 
the  St.  Patrick's  spires  I  was  starting  my  half- 
hour  setting-up  exercises  that  I  was  learning  out 
of  a  book.  Then  fifteen  minutes  of  breathing 
stunts,  a  cold  shower,  and  I  was  ready  for  two 
or  three  soft-boiled  eggs  and  toast  with  hot 
water  and  milk  on  the  side.  After  that  did  a 
brisk  mile  or  so  through  Central  Park,  wishing 
I  could  afford  a  saddle  horse  and  a  sporty  riding 
suit,  and  by  8  o'clock  I  was  back  in  my  room  get- 
ting letter  perfect  in  my  lines  and  working  up 
new  business.  Then,  after  two  or  three  hours 
rehearsing  at  the  theater,  all  I  was  fit  for  was 
a  session  on  the  day-bed  and  maybe  a  snooze 
before  I  dressed  for  dinner. 

"They  make  you  do  all  that?"  asks  Inez. 

"No,  I  make  myself  do  it,"  says  I.  "That's 
the  silly  part." 

"If — if  I  was  talk  actress,"  goes  on  Inez, 
"I'd  take  it  easy — have  lotta  fun." 

"But  I'm  not  elected  yet,"  says  I.  "All  I've 
got  so  far  is  the  nomination.  So  excuse  me  if  I 
seem  to  bustle  around." 

60 


HOW  INEZ  CALLED  THE  TURN 

Inez,  though,  has  a  mind  that's  a  good  deal 
like  a  rubber  stamp.  She's  strong  for  the  con- 
ventions and  traditions.  Her  notion  of  anyone 
who's  on  the  stage  is  that  they  must  trip  jauntily 
along  the  primrose  path,  using  the  powder  puff 
and  lip  stick  liberal  as  they  go.  And  somehow 
she  collects  the  brilliant  idea  that,  having  an 
actress  in  the  family,  it's  up  to  one  member  of 
the  sketch  to  go  through  the  regulation  motions. 
And  she  picks  herself  as  the  one. 

So  she  gets  up  later  and  later,  until  I  find  her 
yawning  over  her  bacon  and  eggs  at  ten-thirty. 
Annette  seems  to  fall  in  with  the  scheme,  too,  for 
she's  none  too  fond  of  leaving  the  hay  early  her- 
self. Also  she  takes  to  improving  Inez's  color 
scheme,  which  is  fully  as  useful  as  gilding  the 
lily.  Then  she  suggests  new  things  for  Inez  to 
buy,  and  charge  to  Uncle  Nels — zippy  afternoon 
costumes,  with  hats  to  match,  and  a  spangled 
dinner  frock.  I'm  just  waiting  to  hear  the  old 
boy  groan  when  the  bills  come  in. 

But  Inez  certainly  is  blooming  out,  for  al- 
though Annette  may  have  been  born  in  Prairie 
la  Chine,  south  of  Montreal,  her  taste  in  dress 
goods  is  real  Frenchy.  She  seems  to  know  by 
instinct  where  to  find  the  little  shops  that  have  the 
smartest  things,  and  tKe  cost  of  them  means  noth- 
ing at  all  in  her  young  life.  It  has  been  rather 

61 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

interesting  to  watch  the  transformation,  but  when 
she  proposed  sending  back  a  skirt  to  have  four 
inches  taken  off  the  bottom  I  had  to  protest. 

"Have  a  heart,  Annette!"  says  I.  "You 
wouldn't  air  calves  like  that  on  the  Avenue, 
would  you?  Can't  you  leave  something  to  the 
imagination  of  the  passerby?"  You  know  Inez 
isn't  built  on  Chippendale  lines. 

"But  zees  ees  New  York!"  insists  Annette. 

"True,"  says  I,  "but  Park  Avenue  isn't  the 
Winter  Garden  stage,  either." 

So  we  compromised  on  two  inches,  and  at  that 
they'll  know  Inez  isn't  suspended  by  a  steel  wire 
when  she  boards  a  surface  car. 

"You  may  not  have  joined  the  Follies  yet, 
Inez,"  says  I,  "but  you  look  the  part." 

"Swell,  eh?"  says  Inez,  showing  her  dimples. 

"In  spots,  yes,"  says  I,  and  retired  to  go  over 
my  lines  in  "The  Prince  and  The  Flapper." 

We  had  been  rehearsing  for  a  week  when  I 
accepted  the  hints  Inez  had  been  throwing  out 
for  an  invitation  to  go  along  with  me  some  after- 
noon. I'd  been  stalling  off  Barry  Platt  for  the 
same  length  of  time,  making  him  promise  to 
keep  away  until  the  piece  was  going  somewhere 
near  right.  But  finally,  after  getting  an  O.  K. 
from  Ames  Hunt,  I  told  'em  they  might  horn  in 
on  an  afternoon  workout. 

62 


HOW  INEZ  CALLED  THE  TURN 

"Bully!"  says  Barry.  "Not  that  I  doubt 
you're  doing  it  well,  but  I'm  anxious  to  see  just 
how  it  will  strike  me." 

"Oh,  you'll  be  easy  to  please,"  says  I.  "Natu- 
rally. They're  your  lines.  But  I'm  curious  to 
know  how  the  piece  will  hit  Inez.  If  I  can  get 
it  over  to  her " 

"Oh,  you're  bound  to,"  says  Barry. 

I  thought  so  myself.  In  fact,  I  figured  on 
giving  Inez  quite  a  grand  little  surprise;  for,  if 
you  remember,  she'd  been  rather  cold  to  the 
play  when  she'd  heard  Barry  read  it  over;  and 
I  don't  think  she'd  taken  very  seriously  my  first 
stab  as  an  actress.  As  long  as  I  didn't  behave 
like  one  off  stage  she  seemed  to  believe  I  wasn't 
the  real  thing.  Then  again,  there  was  her  notion 
that  nothing  but  movie  acting  really  counted, 
anyway.  I  meant  to  show  her  that  she  was 
wrong. 

So  when  we  got  to  the  theater  I  whispered  to 
Barry  to  tow  her  to  a  certain  spot  out  front 
under  a  skylight,  where  I  could  watch  her  as  the 
rehearsal  went  on.  Besides  that,  word  had  been 
passed  around  the  company  that  the  short, 
bristly  haired  gent  with  Mr.  Hunt  was  a  scout 
sent  down  by  an  uptown  manager  who  might 
make  an  offer  later  on  if  the  report  was  favor- 
able. 

63 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

And  I  must  say  that  we  got  it  moving  as  it 
had  never  moved  before.  I  know  I  was  putting 
all  the  pep  I  had  into  the  part,  and  Sczernoff ,  who 
does  the  Prince,  was  playing  up  strong.  Of 
course,  we  weren't  using  anything  but  improvised 
props — a  bare  pine  table  with  two  kitchen  chairs 
for  a  scene  on  the  terrace  of  a  Swiss  hotel,  a 
spring  water  bottle  with  an  old  feather  duster 
stuck  in  it  for  table  decoration,  and  so  on.  Then, 
in  place  of  Hadley  Hall's  stunning  set  showing 
the  distant  Alps  and  suggesting  the  deep  valleys 
between,  there  was  only  the  ugly  brick  back  wall 
of  the  theatre,  smeared  over  with  scene-shifters' 
initials  and  "No  Smoking"  signs.  But  for  the 
first  time  we  were  playing  at  someone,  trying  to 
get  the  lines  across,  and  it  seemed  as  though  we 
were  actually  doing  it. 

That  is,  until  I  felt  sure  enough  of  myself  to 
take  a  glimpse  at  Inez.  I'd  been  rather  dreading 
to  make  the  test,  but  at  the  finish  of  a  little  scene 
where  we  had  swapped  some  of  Barry's  clever 
repartee,  I  turned  my  head  and  peered  out  at 
her.  Bing!  It  was  just  like  running  up  a  win- 
dow shade  to  get  the  view  and  finding  that  some- 
body had  closed  the  iron  shutters.  No  more 
trace  of  interest  than  as  if  she'd  been  at  a  cross- 
ing watching  a  freight  train  go  by.  Not  the 
ghost  of  a  smile,  no  expression  of  any  kind.  She 

64 


HOW  INEZ  CALLED  THE  TURN 

was  simply  chewing  her  gum,  undisturbed  and 
placid. 

But  there  were  even  better  lines  coming,  and 
the  situation  was  intended  to  be  a  funny  one. 
Not  a  scream,  perhaps,  but  decidedly  humorous. 
I  waited  and  tried  harder  than  before.  Then  I 
took  another  peek.  Nothing  doing.  Inez 
chewed  on,  just  as  animated  as  though  she'd 
been  given  the  wrong  connection  and  was  waiting 
for  central  to  discover  that  she  was  still  there. 

I  expect  I  started  biting  my  upper  lip  about 
then,  but  I  wasn't  beaten.  We  had  worked  up  a 
neat  little  bit  of  business  that  was  due  in  a  min- 
ute or  so,  so  I  boomed  along.  It  was  where  the 
Prince  tries  to  do  a  little  sly  finger  squeezing, 
holding  out  his  hand  for  me  to  take  while  he's 
talking  to  Mum-mah,  and  I  slip  my  glove  into  his 
palm.  Not  having  any  glove,  I  grabbed  the 
water  bottle  off  the  table  and  shoved  that  into 
his  hand.  And  as  he  had  his  head  turned  the 
other  way,  Sczernoff  was  naturally  a  bit  sur- 
prised. He's  a  fidgety,  quick-tempered  person, 
too,  when  he's  working.  He  gave  one  disgusted 
glance  at  the  bottle  and  threw  it  peevish  on  the 
floor.  Of  course  there  was  a  fine  crash. 

"I'm  sorry,"  says  I.     "I  didn't  mean  to " 

And  then  there  comes  this  hearty  "Hee-haw!" 
from  out  front  which  nearly  breaks  up  the  show. 

65 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

I  knew  what  had  happened.  The  bottle  smash- 
ing had  hit  Inez  full  on  the  funny-bone.  At  last 
her  sense  of  humor  had  been  reached.  For  no 
one  else  that  I  ever  met  can  express  their  mirth 
quite  so  explosively  or  so  unexpected.  It's 
mighty  seldom,  also  that  Inez  lets  go  of  a  real 
laugh.  In  all  the  years  I've  known  her  I  don't 
suppose  I've  heard  her  cut  loose  with  a  genuine 
Hee-haw  more  than  half  a  dozen  times.  Once 
I  remember  was  up  in  Coleraine  when  some  re- 
fined joker  loaded  a  Montenegrin  ore  handler's 
pipe  with  a  pinch  of  dynamite,  and  another  happy 
incident  that  got  a  rise  out  of  Inez  was  one 
sleety  day  in  Duluth  when  she  saw  a  coal  truck 
skid  through  a  show  window  into  a  display  of 
china  and  glassware.  Anything  less  than  that 
merely  got  a  chuckle  or  a  smile.  So  I  was  sure 
this  must  be  Inez.  Yes,  I  could  see  her  shoulders 
still  heaving  with  joy. 

But  the  Prince  had  had  his  dignity  punctured. 
"If  you  don't  mind,  Miss  Dodge,"  he  protests, 
"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  do  that  again." 

Which  is  where  Ames  Hunt  breaks  in.  "By 
all  means!"  says  he.  "Leave  that  bit  in. 
There'll  be  a  glass  vase  on  the  table,  eh?  Cork- 
ing! And  be  sure  to  slam  it  down  hard,  Sczer- 
noff.  Make  a  good  smash  of  it.  Very  clever 
of  you,  Miss  Dodge." 

66 


HOW  INEZ  CALLED  THE  TURN 

Maybe  it  was  low-brow  stuff,  but  Ames  Hunt 
knows  his  job.  Anyway,  from  then  on  we  had 
Inez  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  chair  with  her 
gum  stowed  to  leeward.  True,  she  failed  to 
voice  any  more  loud  merriment,  but  she  was  with 
us  to  the  last  line. 

I  was  feeling  rather  pleased  with  myself  as 
I  joined  Inez  and  Barry  down  in  the  fifth  row. 
I  knew  about  what  to  expect  from  Barry.  I 
could  see  it  flickering  in  his  eyes  as  he  pulled  me 
down  into  a  chair  beside  him  and  patted  me  on 
the  shoulder.  He  put  it  quite  nicely,  too,  without 
getting  very  personal  or  mushy. 

"Thanks,  old  dear,"  says  I.  "But  you're  a 
rotten  critic,  you  know." 

Then  I  turned  to  Inez.    "Well?"  says  I. 

"Funny  gink,  that  Prince,"  says  she,  dodging 
the  point. 

"You  mean  he's  foreign  looking?"  says  I. 
"Most  princes  are.  They're  born  that  way,  and 
can't  help  it.  He's  a  Russian,  or  was." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  meaning  that  this  is 
enough. 

"But  outside  of  that,"  I  goes  on,  "how  did 
you  like  the  piece?" 

Inez  shrugs  her  shoulders.  "Lotta  talk," 
says  she. 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "This  isn't  a  pantomime, 
67 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

or  a  movie,  and  dialogue  is  somewhat  necessary 
in  a  play.  But  was  it  good  talk,  or  otherwise?" 

"All  right,  I  guess,"  says  she.  "Not  much 
lovin'." 

"But  we  were  working  up  to  it  all  the  time," 
says  I.  "You  got  that,  didn't  you?" 

Inez  blinks  unresponsive.  "You  act  kinda 
silly,"  she  volunteers. 

"Many  thanks,"  says  I.  "I  was  trying  to  be 
a  flapper,  you  see,  and  I  must  have  come  some- 
where near  it.  YouTre  sure  I  seemed  silly 
enough,  are  you?" 

Inez  nods.  "Carrying  on  with  that  man!" 
says  she. 

"Precisely,"  says  I.  "Why,  you're  almost 
flattering,  Inez." 

She  stares  at  me  doubtful  for  a  minute  and 
then  asks :  "Do— do  you  get  him  after  all?" 

"Wasn't  that  made  plain?"  says  I.  "You 
heard  the  last  few  lines,  didn't  you?" 

"But  you — you  don't  hug,"  protests  Inez. 

"That's  true,"  says  I.  "We  finish  at  arm's 
length,  merely  holding  hands  and  gazing  into 
each  others'  eyes.  No  rushing  to  a  clinch,  no 
record-breaking  osculation.  But  the  terrace  of 
a  tourist  hotel  would  be  rather  a  public  place  for 
that  sort  of  a  gummy  wind-up,  wouldn't  it? 
Barry's  fault.  He  wrote  it  that  way.  But  you 

68 


HOW  INEZ  CALLED  THE  TURN 

could  imagine,  couldn't  you,  what  might  take 
place  when  we  were  alone  at  last?" 

Inez  doesn't  admit  that  she  could.  "They 
ought  to  hug  at  the  end,"  she  insists. 

"I'll  speak  to  Ames  Hunt  about  that,"  says  I, 
winking  at  Barry.  "I  wouldn't  mind.  Sczernoff 
looks  like  a  chap  who  could  do  a  good  job  of  it. 
But  how  did  the  lines  go,  Inez  ?  Get  any  chuckles 
from  'em?" 

"Mostly  foolish,"  says  she. 

"You  did  laugh  once,  though,"  I  reminds  her. 

Inez  grins  reminiscent.  "When  he  smash  the 
bottle,  yes,"  she  admits.  "Kinda  funny.  I  like 
to  see  him  do  that  again." 

"There  you  are,  Barry  1"  says  I.  "Your  play 
has  been  saved  from  oblivion  by  a  spring  water 
bottle." 

"Horse-play!"  says  Barry.  "Slapstick  stuff. 
I  wish  Hunt  would  cut  that  out." 

"You're  dead  wrong,  Barry,"  says  I.  "Inez 
has  proved  it.  Just  think;  if  we  ever  move  up- 
town we'll  have  Inez  scattered  all  over  the  house 
— in  the  orchestra  chairs,  in  the  boxes,  in  the 
balconies.  And  their  Hee-haws  will  help." 

"What  you  mean?"  demands  Inez.  "I  gotta 
be  all  over?" 

"Mere  figure  of  speech,  Inez,"  says  I.  "And 
if  one  smashed  bottle  will  work  the  trick — Say, 
6  69 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

Barry,  I'll  tell  you !  Why  not  have  the  dessert 
a  squash  pie,  and  then  I  could  throw  it  at  the 
Prince,  or  he  could  throw  it  at " 

"Gr-r-r-r!"  says  Barry.  "Stop  kidding  me, 
Trilby  May." 

"Ask  Inez,"  I  insists. 

"Uh-huh!"  says  Inez.v  "Swell !_  But  custard, 
that  would  be  best." 

"If  you  only  knew  it,  Barry  boy,"  says  I,  "vox 
populi  has  spoken." 

By  the  way  he  glared  at  us  as  he  left  I  take 
it  that  Barry's  ego  was  about  to  froth  at  the 
mouth. 

"You  get  him  mad  about  something,  eh?" 
asks  Inez. 

"It  was  either  that  or  get  hugged,"  says  I, 
"and  I  didn't  want  to  spoil  an  otherwise  perfect 
afternoon." 


Chapter  V 
Taking  the  Bumps  With  Barry 

I'LL  say  we're  a  queer  lot.  Us  talk  actors,  as 
Inez  would  put  it.  Oh,  yes  1  I  expect  I'm 
qualified  to  class  myself  with  the  profession. 
Anyway,  I've  figured  in  a  first  night  and  I've  dis- 
covered that  I  have  a  fully  developed  tempera- 
ment. I'm  not  boasting  about  owning  such  a 
thing.  I'm  sort  of  jarred  to  think  that  I  have  it. 
It  must  be  something  like  being  told  your  heart 
is  located  on  the  wrong  side,  or  that  you  have 
gift  for  playing  the  snare  drum. 

And  I  would  have  insisted  that  I  was  a  per- 
fectly normal  young  female  person  up  to  within 
twenty-four  hours  before  the  dress  rehearsal. 
It  was  about  then  I  began  to  develop  a  case  of 
jumpy  nerves.  I  didn't  realize  it  at  the  time, 
but  I  must  have  caught  it  from  the  others.  For 
it  swept  through  the  company  like  a  flu  epidemic. 

The  old  hands  showed  it  first.  Mrs.  Bates, 
who  does  Mum-mah  and  has  been  on  the  stage 
since  the  days  of  "The  Black  Crook,"  was  the 
first  to  throw  a  cat-fit.  She  began  to  stumble 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

over  lines  that  she'd  been  letter  perfect  in  from 
the  first,  bungled  the  best  piece  of  business  in 
the  part,  and  finished  the  afternoon  so  hysterical 
that  someone  had  to  light  a  cigarette  for  her. 
Then  Sczernoff  went  fidgety  and  took  it  out  by 
snapping  at  me. 

"Easy  on  the  rough  stuff,  old  dear  I"  I  warned 
him.  "Go  take  a  bite  out  of  the  scenery  if  you 
feel  that  way." 

But  the  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  slipping  my- 
self. I  missed  a  couple  of  cues,  nearly  wrecked 
the  big  scene,  and  found  myself  digging  my  fin- 
ger nails  into  my  palms  and  getting  red  in  the 
ears.  I'd  just  overheard  a  side  remark  by  O.  P. 
Biggs,  who  plays  the  King.  "If  this  keeps  up," 
he  said,  "I  should  advise  Ames  Hunt  to  buy  a 
tent  and  send  us  out  on  the  medicine  circuit." 

You  should  have  been  in  on  that  dress  rehear- 
sal, though.  It  was  too  awful  for  words,  and 
by  the  time  it  was  over  hardly  any  two  of  us  were 
on  speaking  terms.  I  was  in  such  a  state  of  mind 
that  I  couldn't  even  be  sorry  for  Barry  Platt, 
who  stood  around  with  his  jaw  dropped  and  his 
face  white  while  we  murdered  his  lines.  But  Mr. 
Hunt  seemed  quite  calm.  He's  some  manager, 
I'll  tell  the  grand  jury. 

"Yes,  you're  all  pretty  rotten,  thank  you," 
says  he,  smiling  as  though  it  was  a  good  joke. 

72 


TAKING  THE  BUMPS  WITH  BARRY 

"The  usual  thing,  however.  It  will  go  differ- 
ently tomorrow  night,  when  you  have  an  audience 
to  buck  you  up.  Don't  worry,  and  everybody  get 
a  good  night's  sleep." 

He  had  the  true  dope.  We  put  over  "The 
Prince  and  the  Flapper"  as  smooth  and  strong 
as  if  we'd  had  it  on  the  try-out  stands  for  a 
month.  It  went  big,  too.  No,  I'm  not  going  to 
make  a  noise  like  a  press  agent,  so  you'll  have  to 
fill  in  the  details.  And  anyway,  you  know  what 
first  nights  are  apt  to  be  when  an  organization 
like  the  Village  Players  puts  on  a  new  bill — and 
the  manager's  friends  out,  most  of  the  directors 
with  their  friends,  and  the  friends  of  the  actors, 
if  any.  Every  entrance  greeted  with  enthusiasm 
and  as  many  curtain  calls  as  there  are  members 
of  the  cast. 

I  didn't  know  it  then,  but  a  big  noise  by  first 
nighters  doesn't  always  mean  a  long  run.  Some- 
times it's  merely  a  sign  like  the  singing  of  crick- 
ets— six  weeks  to  a  frost.  The  others  should 
have  been  wise  to  it,  but  they  weren't.  They 
went  around  patting  each  other  on  the  shoulder, 
the  women  kissed  and  wept,  and  everybody 
agreed  that  the  piece  was  a  sure-fire  knockout. 

"Really,  I  didn't  think  there  were  so  many 
laughs  in  the  lines,"  says  O.  P.  Biggs.  "But  you 
heard  'em,  didn't  you?  Real  haw-haws." 

23 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

I  nodded  with  the  others.  Yet  I  knew  who 
had  started  it  all.  Inez,  of  course.  She  was  sit 
ting  in  the  fourth  row  with  Uncle  Nels,  all 
primed  and  loaded,  waiting  for  that  scene  where 
the  Prince  finds  I've  slipped  a  glass  vase  into  his 
palm  instead  of  my  hand.  And  when  he  slams 
it  on  the  floor  with  a  crash  Inez  uncorked  that 
hee-haw  of  hers,  just  as  she  did  at  the  rehearsal. 
And  it  touched  off  all  the  other  hearty  laughers, 
clear  to  the  back  rows.  That  was  enough.  From 
then  on  they  all  seemed  to  be  dead  sure  this  was  a 
comedy  they  were  listening  to  and  that  it  was 
perfectly  all  right  to  laugh  at  the  slightest  ex- 
cuse. So  they  did.  It  was  a  regular  epidemic. 
Those  who  were  too  dignified  to  haw-haw  chimed 
in  with  chuckles  or  giggles.  And  every  bit  of  it 
was  sweet  and  cheering  to  us.  For  we  knew  we 
were  good. 

"We'll  make  Broadway  before  Christmas; 
you'll  see,  dearie,"  says  Mrs.  Bates,  hugging  me 
impetuous.  "I'm  going  to  take  an  uptown  flat." 

"I  knew  we  had  a  winner  from  the  first,"  says 
Sczernoff.  "Just  wait  until  you  see  the  notices 
the  newspapers  give  us." 

Even  Barry  had  as  bad  a  case  as  any  of  'em. 
True,  he  still  had  on  tap  that  little  speech  he'd 
worked  up  to  spring  if  there  should  be  wild  cries 
for  the  author.  Three  days  before  the  opening 

74 


TAKING  THE  BUMPS  WITH  BARRY 

he  had  stated  quite  emphatic  that  he  would  give 
way  to  no  such  weakness,  didn't  believe  in  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  that  any  author  who  did  it 
always  made  a  boob  of  himself.  Yet  I  caught 
him  going  over  his  notes  and  he  had  admitted 
sheepish  that  if  the  audience  did  insist  on  having 
a  few  words  from  him  he  might  give  in.  But 
they  didn't  insist.  Hardly  any  of  'em  had  ever 
heard  of  Barry  Platt,  anyway,  and  probably 
only  a  few  wondered  who  he  was. 

But  the  applause  had  gone  to  Barry's  head 
and  the  next  thing  I  knew  he  was  inviting  us  all 
out  for  a  midnight  supper  at  The  Purple  Pup. 
That  was  where  we  had  a  chance  to  hand  our- 
selves all  these  verbal  bouquets.  And  after  I'd 
listened  a  while  I  was  convinced  that  we  had 
taken  part  in  a  dramatic  sensation  that  would 
soon  be  the  talk  of  the  town.  I  could  see  long 
lines  of  limousines  and  taxis  streaming  down  to 
Greenwich  Village  every  night,  box-office  queues 
three  blocks  long,  and  the  S.R.O.  sign  hung  out 
for  every  performance.  I  wondered  if  the 
Mayor  or  Governor  happened  to  be  out  front 
for  the  premiere,  and  If  not  why  not.  Would  the 
critics  give  our  piece  a  full  column  in  the  morning 
papers?  And  what  should  I  say  when  they  came 
to  interview  me  at  the  apartment  later  on? 
Ought  I  to  admit  that  I  was  just  breaking  into 

75 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

the  game,  or  kid  'em  along  with  mystery  stuff  ? 
How  about  that  Morrie  Klaubert  person,  too? 
Suppose  he  sent  for  me  to  come  up  and  sign  a 
contract  for  next  year;  should  I  stick  to  Ames 
Hunt  a  while  longer,  or  take  the  candy  while  the 
taking  was  good? 

Gosh,  but  it  does  get  you  I  This  listening  to 
the  laugh  ripples  grow  into  roars,  watching  the 
fat  man  in  the  middle  row  rock  his  shoulders, 
and  seeing  the  open  face  motions  spread  from 
double  A  to  the  back  rail.  And  then  to  have 
everybody  you  meet  tell  you  how  clever  you 
were.  You  can  hardly  blame  us  for  collecting 
the  notion  that  we've  got  the  world  by  the  ear, 
can  you? 

Of  course  Barry  insists  on  taking  me  home 
in  a  taxi.  If  I'd  been  living  on  Staten  Island  I 
believe  he'd  have  chartered  a  steam  yacht  for  the 
trip  provided  there  was  one  to  be  had.  For  he 
certainly  was  feeling  rich  and  generous.  Also 
grateful. 

"You've  turned  the  trick  for  me,  Trilby  May," 
says  he.  "Made  me  write  the  thing,  got  it 
placed,  and  then  made  it  go.  I — I'm  going  to 
kiss  you." 

"When?"  says  I. 

"Right  now,  as  the  cab's  swinging  into  Fifth 
Avenue,"  says  he. 

76 


TAKING  THE  BUMPS  WITH  BARRY 

"Well,  why  all  the  chatter  about  it,  then?" 
says  I. 

And  he  was  so  hasty  about  it  that  he  almost 
missed. 

"Were  you  ever  a  brakeman,  Barry  boy?" 
I  asks. 

"Why?"  says  he. 

"I  was  only  judging  by  the  performance," 
says  I.  "You  know  you  don't  have  to  do  that 
as  if  you  were  catching  a  mail  sack  on  the  Cen- 
tury Limited.  This  is  no  juggling  trick.  Here, 
lemme  show  you !" 

It  was  a  huge  success,  if  I  do  say  it.  Not  that 
we  hung  up  any  duration  record,  or  held  the 
pose  for  a  fadeaway;  but  it  wasn't  any  half  por- 
tion peck,  either.  And  Barry  knew  he'd  executed 
something  when  it  was  over. 

"Sayl"  says  he,  taking  a  deep  breath.  "That 
sure  was  a  hummer.  I — I'm  afraid  you're  no 
amateur,  Trilby  May." 

"Absolutely,"  says  I.  "We  do  it  right  simply 
from  instinct.  No !  That's  the  finish.  If  you 
think  you've  started  on  a  marathon  you've  got 
another  guess.  Besides,  I'd  rather  hear  you 
talk.  Go  on,  Barry,  tell  me  what  a  great  man 
you're  going  to  be.  Wait  until  I  take  off  my 
hat.  There!  Now  we're  cozy  and  comfy — 
unless  my  hair  tickles  your  ear.  No?  I  suppose 

77 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

it  is  rather  scandalous,  but  it's  rather  nice. 
Eh?" 

I  hope  there  were  no  shocked  old  ladies  out 
on  lower  Fifth  Avenue  at  that  time  of  night,  or 
no  blue  law  reformers.  For  we  might  have 
given  'em  a  jolt.  But  I  didn't  feel  the  least  bit 
wicked.  He's  such  a  clean,  wholesome  youth, 
Barry  Platt,  and  such  a  good  pal.  And  between 
us  we  owned  the  whole  town  that  night.  We'd 
earned  it.  It  was  ours  to  play  with,  or  give 
away,  or  make  over  new.  We  weren't  at  all 
timid  about  doing  it,  either. 

"Some  day,"  says  Barry,  "there'll  be  a  new 
playhouse  built  up  near  Columbus  Circle.  We 
shall  call  it  The  Trilby  May,'  I  think." 

"With  my  portrait  done  in  oils  hung  opposite 
the  box-office  in  the  lobby?"  I  asked. 

"Uh-huh,"  says  he.  "And  another  in  the 
smoking  room  downstairs — a  full  length." 

"Then  the  color  scheme  of  the  decorations 
ought  to  be  freckle  brown  and  gooseberry  green, 
to  match  my  complexion  and  eyes,"  I  suggests. 

"Your  eyes  were  wonderful  tonight,"  says 
Barry.  "Like  opals  in  the  firelight.  How's 
that?  Good  line,  what?  I'll  use  that  in  the 
next  play  I  write  for  you.  Eh  ?  Of  course,  it'll 
be  for  you,  and  it  will  be  a  heap  better  than  this 
one,  for  I  know  what  I  want  to  do  now,  and  I'm 

78 


sure  of  myself.  Yes,  I  have  the  part  nearly 
thought  out.  And  next  time  we'll  start  on 
Broadway." 

"What  a  clever  thought?"  says  I. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  kidding  myself,"  says  he.  "I 
know  a  hit  when  I  see  one.  And  'The  Flapper's' 
it.  You'll  see  when  you  get  the  morning  papers. 
Let's  read  'em  together.  I'll  come  over  about 
ten-thirty  and  bring  the  lot  with  me.  Eh?" 

"All  right,"  says  I.  "We  will  mingle  our 
blushes,  as  it  were.  Oh-hum!  But  I'm  tired, 
Barry  boy.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  sleep  right  through 
to  next  week." 

"Happy  dreams,"  says  Barry,  as  he  left  me 
at  the  elevator. 

"If  any,"  says  I.  "I  think  I'm  going  to  be  too 
busy  for  dreams." 

For  it's  generally  when  I've  flivvered  at  some- 
thing that  the  thought  works  insists  on  running 
a  night  shift.  Worries  and  failures  will  follow 
you  to  the  feathers,  I  find;  but  success  only  rocks 
you  to  sleep  gentle  and  then  steps  outside  to  wait 
until  it  can  ride  in  again  on  a  sunbeam.  And 
now,  for  the  first  time  in  my  young  career,  I  was 
soothed  by  the  thought  that  Trilby  May  Dodge 
was  about  to  become  a  regular  person,  and  not 
a  walking  joke  from  Tamarack  Junction,  Minn. 
It  looked  like  I  had  arrived,  and  that  maybe  I 

79 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

was  going  to  be  somebody  to  tell  the  world 
about.  So  I  snuggled  down  under  the  covers 
and  hardly  wiggled  a  toe  for  eight  hours. 

I  was  just  finishing  my  second  corn  muffin  and 
the  twin  of  the  first  soft-boiled  egg  when  Barry 
came  breezing  in  with  a  bundle  of  newspapers 
under  his  arm. 

"Wux-tree!  Wux-tree!  All  about  the  big 
comedy  hit.  Here's  yer  Woild,  Hurr'ld,  Times 
and  Try-bune.  Poiper,  lady?"  he  calls  out. 

"Bad  boy  1"  says  I.   "Have  you  read  them  all  ?" 

"Not  a  line,"  says  Barry.  "I'll  admit  I  was 
tempted,  but  I've  saved  'em  all  up  until  I  saw 
you.  Haven't  even  taken  a  peek." 

"Noble  youth!"  says  I.  "He  has  Tantalus 
looking  like  an  also-ran.  Well,  steam  ahead." 

"Let's  see,"  says  he.  "Who'll  we  have  first? 
Old  Hey  Broun,  eh?" 

I  nods,  so  Barry  opens  The  World.  For  a 
minute  or  so  he  scans  the  columns  eager  and  then 
his  eyes  take  on  a  puzzled  look. 

"Can't  you  find  it?"  I  asks. 

He  shakes  his  head  and  then  goes  up  and 
down  the  page  again.  "There — there  isn't  a 
word  about  'The  Prince  and  the  Flapper,'  "  he 
finally  announces. 

"No?"  says  I.  "Perhaps  your  Mr.  Broun 
was  sick,  or  out  of  town,  or  something." 

80 


TAKING  THE  BUMPS  WITH  BARRY 

"Nothing  like  that,"  says  Barry.  "See  here ! 
He  has  nearly  a  column  about  'The  Antics  of 
1922,'  though.  All  that  about  a  cheesy  girl  show 
full  of  revamped  vaudeville  acts  and  whiskered 
jokes !  But  for  a  real  play,  not  an  inch  of  space ! 
What  do  you  know  about  that?" 

I  didn't  have  the  answer.  I  couldn't  even 
make  a  good  guess  at  the  mystery.  So  I  did  the 
next  best  thing.  "Oh,  well,  he  isn't  the  only 
dramatic  critic  in  town,  is  he?"  I  asks. 

"No,"  says  Barry.  "And  he'll  probably  have 
something  in  tomorrow.  Let's  see  what  Alex. 
Wolcott  gives  us." 

Barry  threw  The  World  on  the  floor  and 
grabbed  The  Times.  But  I  could  see  by  his  ex- 
pression that  he  was  getting  another  hard  bump. 

"More  oblivion?"  I  asked. 

"Might  as  well  call  it  that,"  says  Barry. 
"Wolcott  favors  The  Antics,'  too.  Whole  col- 
umn, display  head,  signed.  And  'The  Flapper' 
gets  half  a  stickful  in  the  dramatic  notes !  That's 
all.  A  paragraph  done  by  some  assistant,  prob- 
ably an  ad.  man.  No  criticism  at  all.  Just  says 
that  the  Village  Players  put  on  a  new  bill  and 
that  O.  P.  Biggs,  formerly  with  the  Jewett  com- 
pany in  Boston,  was  in  the  cast.  Biggs !  Say, 
that's  the  final  stroke." 

"But  Biggs  was  pretty  good,"  I  suggests. 
81 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Bah!"  says  Barry.  "Nothing  about  the  new 
leading  lady,  Miss  Dodge.  Nothing  about  the 
play.  Say,  what's  the  use  ?" 

"Tough  luck,  Barry  boy,"  says  I.  "But 
there  are  a  few  others.  Perhaps  some  of  'em 
left  the  girl  show  early  and  looked  in  on  us." 

It  was  a  poor  guess.  They  hadn't.  The  long- 
est notice  printed  about  "The  Prince  and  the 
Flapper"  was  a  ten-line  paragraph  which  Barry 
says  is  merely  a  rehash  of  some  press  stuff  sent 
out  by  Ames  Hunt  a  week  ago.  And  there  sits 
Barry  Platt,  who  a  few  hours  before  was  talking 
about  dictating  terms  to  Klaubert,  slumped  in 
a  chair  with  his  chin  on  his  necktie  and  a  lot  of 
crumpled  newspapers  at  his  feet. 

"All  because  Hunt  doesn't  take  big  adver- 
tising space,"  grumbles  Barry.  "Can't,  you 
know,  with  that  little  house  way  down  town. 
And  what  do  the  critics  care  about  art?  Bah!" 

"Then  we  haven't  made  the  town  sit  up  and 
take  notice,  eh?"  I  asked. 

"It  seems  not,"  says  Barry. 

"How  disappointing!"  says  I.  "From  what 
I  heard  last  night  I  thought — well,  I  thought 
Brooklyn  Bridge  would  be  jammed  with  the 
people  coming  over,  and  that  extra  ferries  would 
be  running  from  Jersey.  I  had  myself  all  posted 
up,  too,  as  a  new  theatrical  star,  just  discovered. 

82 


TAKING  THE  BUMPS  WITH  BARRY 

And  it  seems  that  nobody  knows  I'm  even 
twinkling." 

Barry  gives  a  ghost  of  a  smile.  "There  was 
one  notice  I  didn't  read  to  you,"  says  he.  "It's 
a  boost,  too.  Listen :  'A  play  called  The  Prince 
and  the  Flapper,  by' — Get  this  now — 'by  Perry 
Blatt,  was  produced  last  night  by  the  Village 
Players.  The  scenery,  painted  by  Hadley  Hall, 
was  very  well  done.'  Ye  gods!  The  scenery! 
And  I  crash  into  fame  as  Perry  Blatt!  Say,  I 
could  murder  the  linotyper  who  did  that  to  me." 

He  almost  looked  as  if  he  could.  In  fact,  he 
glared  at  the  rug  so  vicious  that  I  had  to  chuckle. 

"Funny,  isn't  it?"  he  asks  bitter. 

"Oh,  buck  up,  old  dear!"  says  I.  "And 
doesn't  it  strike  you,  Barry,  that  we've  all  been 
taking  ourselves  just  a  bit  too  seriously?  Let's 
see,  how  many  did  we  have  in  the  house  last 
night?  Eight  hundred?  And  there  are  about 
five  million  more  who  were  not  among  those  pres- 
ent. Think  it  over.  Lemme  see  one  of  those 
newspapers.  Huh !  Quite  a  lot  going  on  besides 
play  openings,  isn't  there?  There's  an  election 
coming  off  soon.  I  suppose  some  folks  are  more 
or  less  interested  in  that.  And  here's  that  New 
Rochelle  murder  mystery  that  seems  to  be  fig- 
uring prominently.  There's  the  news  from  Ire- 
land, too;  and  something  about  the  new  tariff 

83 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

bill,  and  another  scandal  in  the  police  depart- 
ment, and  an  account  of  a  big  railroad  smash  out 
in  Indiana.  Say,  I'm  beginning  to  suspect,  Barry, 
that  maybe  our  first  night  wasn't  such  a  great 
and  thrilling  event  as  we  had  it  sized  up  for. 
Eh?" 

Barry  stares  at  me  a  moment,  and  then  grins. 
"I  guess  you're  right,  Trilby  May,"  says  he. 
"We  threw  a  pebble  into  the  Atlantic  and  then 
looked  for  a  tidal  wave.  All  but  you.  You  seem 
to  have  kept  your  head  on  your  shoulders." 

"It  was  a  bit  wobbly  along  about  midnight," 
says  I.  "Of  course,  I  don't  understand  this 
newspaper  game  at  all.  But  everything  isn't 
lost,  is  it?" 

No,  he  admits  that  there  is  still  hope.  And 
sure  enough,  there  was.  Two  of  the  evening 
editions  had  real  nice  things  to  say  about  us  and 
the  play.  One  critic  was  almost  enthusiastic. 
True,  he  did  squander  more  adjectives  on  Had- 
ley  Hall's  Swiss  mountain  set  than  on  the  piece 
proper,  but  he  added  that  Miss  Dodge  as  The 
Flapper  did  a  very  creditable  bit  of  work.  And 
by  dinner  time  Barry  had  been  assured  that  the 
big  critics  would  be  down  later  in  the  week  to  see 
if  there  really  was  anything  in  his  play  worth 
mentioning. 

I'd  had  my  hunch,  though.  I  knew  that  1'^ 
84 


TAKING  THE  BUMPS  WITH  BARRY 

made  a  broad  jump  and  had  landed  fairly  well; 
better  than  I  ever  hoped  for.  It  was  a  big  thing 
— for  me.  But  I  was  also  getting  hep  to  the  fact 
that  I  hadn't  shaken  Manhattan  Island  to  its 
foundations.  The  Subway  hadn't  caved  in,  the 
Metropolitan  tower  was  still  standing,  and  there 
was  no  panic  in  the  theatrical  district.  Tonight 
folks  would  stream  into  the  movie  houses,  or 
have  late  dinners,  or  gather  in  somebody's  apart- 
ment for  poker  or  bridge  just  as  usual.  Not  one 
in  a  hundred  would  even  know  that  such  a  piece 
as  "The  Flapper"  was  being  played,  and  ten 
chances  to  one  the  party  who  did  would  forget 
it  before  morning.  So  why  kid  myself  that  I  had 
made  it  easy  for  Maude  Adams  to  retire?  I 
chirked  up  and  hummed  a  tune  as  I  got  ready  to 
start  for  the  theater.  I  caught  Inez  staring 
curious  at  me  out  of  those  calm  gray  eyes  of  hers. 

"It's  swell,  eh,"  she  asks,  "being  talk  actress?" 

"In  the  head,  yes,"  says  I.  "That  is,  if  you 
don't  watch  out." 

"You  feel  that  way?"  says  Inez. 

"I  did,"  says  I.  "But  I've  had  a  puncture,  and 
just  at  present,  Inez,  I'm  bumping  along  on  the 
rim." 


Chapter  VI 
Back  Stage  With  Trilby  May 


see,  Dearie,"  says  Mrs.  Bates. 
"By  another  week  everything  will  be  run- 
ning smooth  and  we'll  be  just  like  a  big  family." 

"Eh?"  says  I.  uBig  family?  I  hope  not 
That  was  one  of  the  seven  mystic  reasons  why  I 
left  home,  Mrs.  Bates." 

"Please,  Trilby  May!"  she"  protests.  "All 
the  others  are  calling  me  Auntie  Bates.  They 
always  do." 

"Very  well,"  says  I.  "I  don't  want  to  shatter 
any  good  old  back-stage  traditions.  Auntie 
Bates  it  is." 

Which  was  where  I  got  folded  to  her  ample 
bosom  and  had  a  warm,  moist  dab  planted  under 
my  left  ear.  One  of  these  impetuous,  warm- 
hearted females,  Mrs.  Bates  is.  She  admits  it 
herself.  "I'm  such  a  silly  goose,"  she's  apt  to 
say,  "but  I  do  get  awfully  fond  of  people." 

"Is  it  a  trick,"  says  I,  "or  a  habit?" 

She  merely  simpers  at  that  and  shows  her 
double  chins,  for  anything  that  isn't  as  plain  as 

86 


BACK  STAGE  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

a  "Go-Stop"  sign  she  don't  get  at  all.  For  some 
time  I  couldn't  figure  how  a  manager  such  as 
Ames  Hunt,  who  specializes  in  raw  material  and 
is  always  curling  his  lip  at  the  average  Broadway 
productions,  should  have  picked  an  old  timer  like 
Mrs.  Bates.  She  does  the  "Mum-mah"  part  in 
"The  Prince  and  the  Flapper,"  you  know,  and 
from  the  start  her  work  was  as  stagey  and  Al- 
Woodsy  as  it  well  could  be.  But  Hunt  never 
called  her  for  it,  never  asked  her  to  change  an 
inflection.  "Just  be  natural,  Mrs.  Bates,"  he 
told  her  once  when  she  asked  how  she  should 
read  a  line. 

Then  of  course  I  got  wise  to  his  idea.  This 
"Mum-mah"  person  in  Barry's  play  is  a  bean- 
less,  gushy  old  soul  who  is  still  kittenish  at  fifty- 
five  and  doesn't  care  who  knows  it.  So  when 
Ames  Hunt  had  gone  to  a  theatrical  agency, 
which  he  usually  avoids,  and  had  picked  out 
Auntie  Bates,  he  got  someone  who  fitted  the 
character  like  the  skin  on  a  banana.  She  hardly 
needed  any  extra  make-up,  for  even  on  the  street 
and  at  rehearsals  she  shows  those  little  touches 
which  any  druggist  can  supply.  Even  her  hair  is 
perfect.  Heaven  only  knows  what  shade  it  was 
originally  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  but  Mrs.  Bates 
herself  has  forgotten ;  she's  been  an  experimental 
blonde  so  long,  ranging  from  the  old  peroxide 

87 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

dip  to  the  henna  wash;  until  now  her  crowning 
glory  has  most  of  the  tints  of  a  fading  rainbow, 
including  faint  yellows  and  sickly  greens.  Neither 
could  her  voice  be  improved  on,  for  it  ranges 
from  a  cooey  gurgle  to  a  rasping  cackle. 

Let  her  tell  it,  and  she's  had  some  career,  be- 
ginning as  the  little  child  in  "Lights  o'  London" 
and  working  through  until  she  was  singing  with 
The  Bostonians  back  in  the  days  when  De  Wolf 
Hopper  was  new  to  Broadway  and  "After  the 
Ball"  was  a  popular  song  hit.  She  has  told  me 
a  lot  about  such  things,  but  most  of  'em  were 
about  as  familiar  to  me  as  the  fall  of  Nineveh 
or  the  rise  of  the  Hanseatic  League.  I  knew 
they'd  happened,  but  not  why  or  when. 

It  wasn't  until  after  "The  Flapper"  had  gone 
into  its  second  week  and  promised  to  linger  on 
for  a  month  or  so  that  Auntie  Bates  got  to  be 
real  folksy,  however.  She  would  come  waddling 
into  my  dressing-room  for  a  ten-minute  chat  be- 
fore first  call,  generally  opening  by  feeding  me 
a  bit  of  taffy  she'd  thought  up  for  the  occasion, 
and  then  shifting  to  a  chapter  of  her  personal 
history.  I  didn't  mind,  for  half  the  time  I  didn't 
listen  close,  and  her  monologue  wasn't  dis- 
turbing. 

Likewise  it  was  only  gradually  that  she  sprung 
her  family  on  us.  I  had  rather  thought  she  was 

88 


BACK  STAGE  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

a  widow  of  some  kind,  sod  or  statutory,  but  it 
developed  that  there  was  a  hubby  in  the  back- 
ground. "Daddy  Bates,"  she  called  him,  al- 
though what  he  was  a  daddy  of  was  more  than 
I  ever  discovered.  Of  course  there  was  Thespy. 

"You  must  know  Thespy,"  Auntie  Bates  said 
one  night.  "She's  a  dear.  I'll  have  Daddy  bring 
her  around  some  evening." 

"She's — er — your  daughter?"  I  asked. 

"How  absurd!"  says  Auntie  Bates.  "Why, 
Thespy  is  the  dearest  little  Pom.  you  ever  saw. 
I've  had  her  nearly  twelve  years." 

"Oh!"  says  I.    "A dog!    I  like  dogs." 

So  do  I,  as  a  rule.  But  I  wasn't  crazy  about 
Thespy.  And  anyway,  I've  always  classed  these 
Pomeranians  as  more  like  parlor  insects  than  real 
dogs.  Besides,  Thespy  had  got  to  the  moulting 
stage,  when  a  lot  of  her  fluffy  black  hair  was 
missing,  and  more  of  it  had  turned  gray.  She 
was  wheezy  and  short  tempered,  too,  and  looked 
at  you  out  of  her  watery  little  eyes  in  a  super- 
cilious, unfriendly  stare. 

"Poor  dear,"  explains  Auntie  Bates,  "she 
doesn't  see  very  well  now." 

What  I  would  have  prescribed  for  Thespy 
if  she  had  been  mine  would  have  been  a  nice 
tight  soap  box  and  two  ounces  of  chloroform 
on  a  roll  of  cotton.  But  as  I  felt  no  responsi- 

89 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

bility  in  the  matter  I  merely  patted  her  gingerly 
and  backed  off. 

I  couldn't  admire  Daddy  Bates,  either.  Until 
I  got  used  to  him  he  seemed  to  be  more  like  some- 
one who  had  stepped  out  of  a  comic  strip  than  a 
real  person.  One  of  these  short-legged,  dumpy 
built  men,  with  a  big  solemn  face  that  in  some 
way  had  gotten  out  of  drawing.  I  couldn't  tell 
just  what  was  the  matter  with  his  face ;  whether 
the  hooked  nose  was  too  long,  or  the  owl-like 
eyes  too  wide  apart,  or  the  grayish  mustache  too 
much  like  the  tusks  of  a  walrus. 

Anyway,  he  was  rather  a  weird  old  boy  who 
seemed  quite  devoted  to  Thespy  and  had  very 
little  to  say.  He  was  given  to  wearing  fancy 
vests  that  didn't  at  all  go  with  his  coat,  purple 
neckties  that  clashed  violently  with  his  ruddy 
cheeks,  and  across  his  wide  chest  he  always  had 
draped  a  heavy  watch  chain  with  a  huge 
Shriners'  emblem  dangling  from  it. 

"Are  you  an  actor,  too,  Mr.  Bates?"  I  asked. 

"Me!  Lor',  no,  Miss,"  he  protested.  "Flo, 
here,  she's  the  only  one  in  our  fam'ly  that's  got 
any  talent.  I'm  just  Daddy  Bates." 

"Dear  old  silly!"  says  Auntie  Bates,  ducking 
her  double  chin  coy  and  patting  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

Later  on  she  confided  to  me  that  Daddy  Bates 
90 


BACK  STAGE  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

had  been  quite  a  personage  in  his  day.  He'd 
been  mayor  of  Paramus,  N.  J.,  for  two  terms, 
had  run  a  roadhouse  near  there  for  fifteen  years, 
and  long  ago  had  been  a  promoter  of  bicycle 
races  and  other  big  sporting  events.  She  had 
met  him  when  she  was  a  member  of  a  stranded 
road  company,  and  he'd  been  so  kind  to  her  that 
she'd  married  him. 

"And  you've  lived  happily  ever  after?"  I 
suggests. 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  Auntie  Bates,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.  "He's  an  old  darling,  Daddy  Bates. 
Follows  me  around  everywhere,  you  know,  even 
when  I'm  on  tour.  You  see,  my  dear,"  here  she 
drops  her  voice  to  a  hoarse  whisper,  "the  old 
stupid  is  frightfully  jealous." 

I  hope  I  smothered  the  grin.  "No!"  says  I. 
"You  don't  mean  it?" 

Auntie  Bates  nods  and  sighs.  "He  wasn't  so 
at  first,"  she  goes  on,  "or  else  he  hid  it  from  me. 
But  in  the  last  five  or  ten  years  it  has  been  grow- 
ing on  him.  He  doesn't  even  deny  it.  Says  he's 
afraid  of  losing  me.  I  have  to  be  very  careful, 
you  know." 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "I  should  think  you  would." 

And  for  fear  I  couldn't  keep  back  the  chuckles 
any  longer  I  had  to  shoo  her  out  and  send  for 
Barry  Platt,  so  I  could  share  the  secret  with 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

someone.  "I'm  sure  I  can't  imagine  who  would 
want  to  steal  her  from  him,"  says  Barry,  "unless 
it  was  some  collector  of  antiques." 

"Oh,  let's  not  be  rough,  Barry,"  says  I.  "And 
I  shouldn't  wonder  but  what  she  was  quite  a 
vamp  in  her  day." 

"I've  heard  that  Cleopatra  was,  too,"  says  he, 
"but  she  had  the  good  taste  not  to  outlive  her 
reputation." 

"Anyway,"  says  I,  "it's  too  late  to  send 
Auntie  Bates  a  snake  in  a  basket  of  fruit.  She 
might  not  take  the  hint." 

"After  hearing  what  a  fire-eater  Daddy  Bates 
is,"  says  Barry,  "I  wouldn't  risk  sending  her 
anything." 

But  it  was  interesting,  after  that,  to  watch 
the  old  girl,  especially  in  her  livelier  moments. 
For  when  she  was  sure  Daddy  Bates  wasn't 
hanging  around  somewhere  back  stage  she  was 
fond  of  twinkling  her  eyes  at  almost  any  male 
who  happened  to  be  handy,  from  Ames  Hunt  to 
a  scene  shifter.  She  would  paw  'em,  too,  if  she 
got  a  chance,  and  of  course  she  called  everybody 
"Dearie." 

Not  that  any  of  the  men  really  fell  for  Auntie 
Bates,  but  they  didn't  seem  to  dislike  being 
petted  by  her.  You  know  how  they  are  ?  Even 
O.  P.  Biggs,  who  is  a  good  deal  of  a  grouch 

92 


BACK  STAGE  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

when  he's  working,  would  let  her  cuddle  up  to 
him  occasionally  and  he  would  listen  while  she 
related  how,  when  she  was  singing  in  "Nanon" 
once,  as  the  landlord's  daughter,  an  audience  in 
Brockton,  Mass.,  gave  her  nine  encores,  and  she 
did  wish  he  could  have  known  her  then, 
i  But  Sczernoff,  the  reformed  Russian,  seemed 
to  be  her  pet.  "He's  such  a  sad-eyed,  lonely 
boy,"  she  explained  to  me  once,  "that  I  just  can't 
help  mothering  him." 

"You're  welcome,"  says  I.  "I  guess  he  needs 
it,  too." 

One  of  these  silent,  brooding  men,  Sczernoff 
is,  and  it  wasn't  until  Auntie  Bates  had  several 
confidential  chats  with  him  that  any  of  us  sus- 
pected he  was  the  only  surviving  member  of  a 
noble  Russian  family.  The  Reds  had  done  for 
the  rest  and  Sczernoff  himself  had  only  escaped 
by  walking  clear  across  Finland  disguised  as  an 
old  woman  and  had  worked  his  passage  to  New 
York  as  a  coal  passer  on  a  Swedish  tramp 
steamer.  He  had  nearly  starved  after  getting 
here,  at  that,  but  finally  he  had  run  across  an  old 
family  servant  who  was  holding  down  a  waiter's 
job  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  hotel  and  the  faithful  re- 
tainer had  grub-staked  him  until  he  had  been 
signed  on  for  a  small  part  by  an  East  Side  mana- 
ger. That  was  where  Ames  Hunt  had  discov- 

93 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

ered  him  and  asked  him  to  play  the  part  of  the 
Prince  in  "The  Flapper." 

Perhaps  Auntie  Bates  gave  him  soothing 
words  of  sympathy.  She  has  a  good  line  of  chat 
when  she  cares  to  unload  it.  Anyway,  they  got 
quite  chummy  and  it  was  the  usual  thing  to  see 
them  hobnobbing  in  the  wings  during  the  waits. 
Generally  she  would  have  one  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der, or  an  arm  tucked  through  his.  All  quite 
motherly  and  innocent. 

"The  dear  boy  has  asked  me  out  for  supper," 
she  whispered  to  me  one  night.  "I  wish  I 
dared." 

"Think  Daddy  would  raise  a  row?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  he'd  be  furious,"  says  she. 

He  was  nearly  always  apt  to  drift  around,  too, 
Daddy  Bates,  at  some  time  during  the  evening. 
Not  that  he  acted  suspicious  or  went  through 
any  sleuthy  motions.  Mainly  he  spent  his  time 
out  with  old  Mike,  at  the  stage  door,  where  the 
two  of  them  would  sit  smoking  their  pipes  and 
telling  stale  jokes.  But  now  and  then  Daddy 
Bates  would  stroll  in,  camp  on  a  box  or  some- 
thing, and  watch  his  Flo  go  through  her  part. 
Rather  a  genial,  kindly  old  soul  he  looked,  too, 
and  it  was  hard  to  think  of  him  getting  green 
in  the  eyes  and  ranting  around.  I  sai,d  as  much 
to  Auntie  Bates. 

94 


BACK  STAGE  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

"Oh,  you  should  hear  him  go  on  after  we  get 
home,"  she  insisted.  "Why,  only  the  other  night, 
when  he  had  seen  me  talking  to  that  dear  boy, 
he  actually  threatened  to  shoot  himself.  I'm 
afraid  he'll  do  it  sometime.  Honestly!  But 
I'm  such  a  silly  goose  I  just  can't  help  talking 
to  the  men." 

"Of  course  you  can't,"  says  I. 

It  was  the  next  Friday  night,  I  think,  that  this 
little  talk  of  ours  came  back  to  me  so  strong. 
Anyway,  there  was  a  light  house,  and  it  had  been 
raining  for  forty-eight  hours  without  a  let  up, 
and  we  were  all  feeling  rather  soggy  and  low  in 
our  minds.  Auntie  Bates,  having  more  tempera- 
ment than  most  of  us  and  being  shy  on  self-con- 
trol, showed  symptoms  of  the  blue  willies  the 
plainest.  Before  the  curtain  went  up  she  wept 
a  little  on  my  shoulder  and  told  me  all  about  it. 

"Everything  seems  to  come  together,  doesn't 
it,  Dearie?"  says  she.  "This  dreadful  weather 
is  bad  enough.  And  then  Thespy  had  to  have 
another  spell — asthma,  or  something  like  that 
which  dogs  have.  The  poor  dear!  I  held  her  in 
my  lap  all  the  afternoon.  And  I  supposed  Daddy 
would  be  there  to  take  care  of  her  tonight,  but 
instead  of  that  he  insisted  on  going  off  to  some 
foolish  banquet.  I  was  real  cross  with  him,  too, 
but  he  said  it  was  the  annual  something  or  other, 

95 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

and  as  he  was  the  Grand  Past  What-you-callum 
he  just  had  to  be  there.  I  suppose  he  did  have 
to  go,  but  I  was  so  worried  about  Thespy  that  I 
didn't  care  what  I  said  and  we — we " 

"Uh-huh !"  says  I.  "I  can  guess  the  rest.  You 
kept  the  home  brew  boiling  and  slammed  the 
door  as  you  left.  You'll  both  get  over  it  by  to- 
morrow noon,  and  the  sun  will  be  shining,  and 
every  little  thing  will  be  lovely  once  more.  So 
there!" 

"It — it's  such  a  comfort,"  sniffed  Auntie 
Bates,  "having  good  friends  who  understand 
you.  If  it  wasn't  for  you  and  that  dear  boy  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do." 

So  it  was  Sczernoff's  turn  next,  but  somehow 
she  didn't  get  a  chance  to  confide  in  him  until 
well  along  in  the  evening.  When  she  did,  though, 
she  made  up  for  lost  time.  She  didn't  stop  at 
merely  pawing  him.  When  I  saw  them  she  had 
gone  to  a  regular  clinch,  with  both  arms  around 
his  neck  and  her  much-revised  hair  nestling  on 
his  shirt  front.  He  did  look  a  bit  fussed  at  this 
sudden  burst  of  affection,  but  he  patted  her 
shoulder  soothing  and  said  the  proper  thing,  I 
suppose.  He  could  hardly  do  anything  else,  you 
know. 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  I  saw  her  make  a 
quick  break-away  and  stand  rigid,  looking  back 

96 


BACK  STAGE  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

into  the  wings.  From  where  I  was  I  couldn't 
see  what  had  startled  her  so,  but  she  didn't  leave 
me  in  doubt  long,  for  she  came  dashing  over  to 
me  and  grabbed  me  by  the  arm. 

"Oh,  oh !"  she  moaned.  "Now  there  will  be 
the  devil  to  pay." 

"Eh?"  says  I.  "What's  the  trouble?  You 
act  as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost." 

"Don't!"  says  she.     "Don't  say  that." 

"Well,  what  did  you  see  that  got  you  so  pan- 
icky?" I  demands. 

"Didn't  you  see  him,  too?"  she  asks.  "Back 
there  in  the  wings,  watching  me  ?  Daddy  Bates  I" 

"But  I  thought  he  was  off  at  a  banquet,"  I 
suggests. 

"So  he  was,"  said  she.  "At  least,  that's  where 
he  said  he  was  going.  But  perhaps  he  didn't  go 
at  all  and  came  here  to — to  watch  me.  And  he 
saw!  He  must  have  seen!" 

"You  and  the  dear  boy?"  I  suggests.  "Well, 
if  he  did  he  got  an  eyeful." 

"And  he  won't  understand,"  wails  Auntie 
Bates.  "I'm  sure  he  won't  understand." 

"If  he's  the  kind  you've  described,"  says  I, 
"I'm  afraid  he'll  not." 

"Oh,  oh !"  she  groans.  "I  hope  he  isn't  going 
to  do  anything  desperate.  I — I  told  you  what 
he  said  he'd  do,  you  know." 

97 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  says  I.  "Carries  one 
with  him,  does  he?" 

"I — I  think  so,"  says  she.  "And  he  must 
have  gone  into  my  dressing  room.  He — he's 
waiting  for  me  there,  or  else  he — means  to——" 

"Pooh  1"  says  I.  "They  don't  mean  half  they 
say.  Probably  he's  just  gone  off  to  sulk  and  in 
half  an  hour  or  so " 

Which  was  where  this  "Bang!"  came  in.  It 
wasn't  a  real  loud  one — rather  dull  and  muffled, 
in  fact — but  it  sounded  ominous  enough.  I'll 
admit  it  brought  me  up  on  my  toes.  As  for 
Auntie  Bates,  she  simply  surged  at  me,  grabbed 
me  as  though  I  was  a  life  raft,  and  proceeded  to 
cut  loose  with  the  hysterics. 

"Hold  the  curtain,  somebody  1"  I  calls  out. 
"Don't  let  it  go  up." 

"What?"  asks  two  or  three,  rushing  up. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"It's  Mrs.  Bates,"  says  I.  "She's— she's  had  a 
shock  or  something.  Can't  go  on  just  yet.  Hold 
her,  will  you,  Mr.  Biggs.  And  take  her  somewhere. 
No,  not  to  her  dressing-room.  Anywhere  else." 

They  had  quite  a  job  handling  her,  but  they 
finally  managed  to  lug  her  into  my  room  and 
stretch  her  out  on  a  wicker  couch.  And  about 
then  Ames  Hunt  happened  to  stroll  in  from  the 
box-office. 

98 


BACK  STAGE  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

"What's  it  all  about?"  he  demands.  "What 
has  happened?" 

"I  don't  know,  quite,"  says  I.  "I've  got  to 
see.  Just  a  moment." 

It's  odd,  too,  how  calm  you  can  be  at  a  time 
like  that.  I  remember  glancing  in  the  mirror  to 
see  if  I  could  be  pale  in  spite  of  my  make-up. 
Then  I  hurried  to  Auntie  Bates'  dressing-room. 
I  didn't  want  to  go.  I'm  no  tragedy  hound  that 
likes  to  horn  in  on  the  scene.  But  I  was  the  only 
one  who  knew  what  to  expect.  So  I  went. 

As  I  opened  the  door  I  couldn't  help  shutting 
my  eyes,  though,  and  it  was  not  until  I'd  eased 
myself  in  that  I  had  courage  to  open  them.  No, 
I  didn't  find  Daddy  Bates  weltering  on  the  floor. 
He  was  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  mopping  his 
face  with  a  handkerchief.  And  the  stuff  he  was 
wiping  off  his  cheeks  and  out  of  his  eyes  was  red. 

"Mr.  Bates!"  I  gasped. 

"Wha — what?"  says  he.  "Oh,  it's  you,  Miss 
Dodge,  is  it?" 

"Have  you  shot  yourself — really?"  I  de- 
mands. 

"Eh?"  says  he,  staring  out  of  his  funny  eyes. 
"Me?  Shot  myself?  Well,  not  exactly.  Al- 
most, though,  by  crickey.  Haw,  haw!" 

He  has  a  real  hearty  laugh,  Daddy  Bates,  but 
it  struck  me  as  an  odd  time  to  pull  it.  "S-s-s-sh  I" 

99 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

says  I.  "They'll  hear  you.  Where  did  the  bul- 
let go?" 

"Bullet?"  says  he.  "What  you  talking  about, 
girl?  Wa'n't  no  bullet.  Only  this." 

At  first  I  couldn't  make  it  out.  It  looked  like 
a  cigar  with  the  end  cut  off.  Then  I  took  it  and 
saw.  It  was  a  trick  cigar — one  of  the  anti-Vol- 
stead  brand,  made  by  pasting  brown  paper 
around  a  glass  tube  and  adding  to  the  illusion 
by  having  a  cigar  band  around  the  middle. 
You've  seen  'em.  They're  almost  as  common  as 
toddle  tops  now,  and  are  said  to  hold  a  fair-sized 
drink.  Sporty  people  spring  'em  at  dinner  par- 
ties and  pass  'em  around. 

"But  they  don't  explode,  do  they?"  I  asked. 

"I'll  say  they  do,"  says  Daddy  Bates.  "This 
one  did,  by  cricketyl  Never  thought  of  that, 
either.  You  see,  at  the  annual  banquet  we  had 
some  wine — sparkling  burgundy.  I  didn't.  I'm 
on  the  wagon  myself.  But  it  was  going  around 
and  I — Well,  I  thought  it  was  a  shame  Flo 
couldn't  have  some,  and  when  my  old  friend 
Bill  Devins  passed  me  this  fake  cigar  it  gave  me 
the  idea.  I'd  just  fill  it  up  with  the  fuzzy  stuff 
and  take  it  home  to  the  wife.  So  I  did.  I  was 
waiting  until  she  got  through  though,  planning 
to  surprise  her  with  a  nice  little  drink.  Left 
early  just  to  do  it.  The  stuff  must  have  got 

100 


BACK  STAGE  WITH  TRILBY  MAY 

shook  up  on  the  way  here,  though,  and  maybe 
it  got  kind  of  warm  in  my  vest  pocket.  Any- 
way, first  thing  I  knew  it  popped  the  cork  out 
and  sprinkled  me  good.  By  crickey!  Every 
drop  gone!" 

"Then — then  you  didn't  try  to  shoot  your- 
self ?"  I  asked. 

"Do  I  look  like  that  kind  of  a  boob?"  he  de- 
mands. "Why  should  I?" 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "You — you  didn't  notice  any- 
thing particular  as  you  came  in?" 

"Only  Flo,"  says  he.  "She  was  lallygaggin' 
a  bit  with  that  young  black-haired  chap,  wasn't 
she.  Flo  will  if  she  gets  a  chance,  you  know. 
That's  her." 

"Then  you're  not  furious  with  her  or — any- 
thing like  that?"  I  asks. 

"Lord,  no!"  says  he.  "I'm  used  to  it.  She 
don't  mean  any  harm." 

"You're  an  old  dear,  Daddy  Bates,"  says  I. 
"I  must  go  and  tell  her." 

"Tut,  tut,  young  woman,"  says  he.  "Don't 
you  go  tellin'  Flo  anything.  If  you  please." 

"But  surely,"  says  I,  "you  must  want  her  to 
know  that  you're  not  jealous." 

"See  here,"  says  he.  "You  don't  get  the  idea. 
You  don't  know  Flo  the  way  I  do.  She  was  a 
mighty  good  lookin'  woman  once,  Flo  was.  I 
8  101 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

thought  a  heap  of  her.  I  do  yet.  And  some 
day,  I  expect,  she's  goin'  to  wake  up  to  the  fact 
that  she's  gettin'  on  in  years  and  ain't  such  a 
charmer  as  she  was  once.  But  listen,  Miss 
Dodge,  she  ain't  goin'  to  hear  it  from  me. 
Never.  And  if  she  thought  I  wasn't  jealous — 
well,  it  would  just  about  break  her  heart.  Eh? 
Thought  I'd  shot  myself?  Well,  you  go  tell 
her  I  missed  by  about  a  foot,  but  that  I'm  stamp- 
in'  and  ragin'  up  and  down  in  here  something 
awful  and  I'm  just  waitin'  to  bawl  her  out  good. 
Get  me,  don't  you?  That's  the  girl  1  Lay  it  on 
as  thick  as  you  want." 

I  must  have  done  a  good  job,  too.  First  I 
cleared  all  of  them  out  of  the  way,  took  the 
smelling  salts  from  her  hand,  and  whispered  in 
her  ear.  And  inside  of  three  minutes  we  had  the 
curtain  up  and  the  play  was  going  on  as  usual. 

At  breakfast  Inez  asks  me  if  I  still  like  being 
'a  talk  actress  and  I  admit  that  I  do. 

"Them  funny  people  that  act  with  you,"  she 
goes  on,  "you — you  get  along  all  right  with 
'em?" 

"We're  just  like  one  big  family,  Inez,"  says  I. 

"Huh  1"  says  she,  being  one  of  fourteen. 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "But  it's  better  than  being 
lonesome." 


102 


Chapter  VII 
Getting  Tagged  by  Gerald 

OF  course,  Barry  Platt  had  to  discover  them. 
Not  that  I  took  any  particular  pains  to  hide 
them  away,  but  I  had  rather  hoped  he  wouldn't 
be  around  that  night,  or  if  he  was  that  he'd  fail 
to  notice  what  was  displayed  on  the  corner  table 
in  my  dressing  room.  He  had  trickled  in, 
though,  to  tell  me  the  good  news  about  his  aunt's 
estate  being  settled  and  how  the  ten  thousand 
would  soon  be  in  the  bank  in  his  name,  when 
those  restless  eyes  of  his  spotted  the  exhibit. 

"What's  all  this?"  he  asks. 

"Eh?"  says  I  careless.  "Oh,  that!  Just  an- 
other little  tribute,  Barry  boy." 

"Another !  Oh,  come,  Trilby  May  1"  says  he. 
"Just  as  though  this  was  a  regular  thing." 

"Last  night  it  was  roses,"  says  I.  "You 
missed  those.  They  were  beauties,  too." 

"And  tonight  English  violets  and  a  box  of 
Lady  Betty  bonbons!"  he  goes  on.  "Say,  who 
is  the  fond  admirer?" 

I  registered  indifference  with  a  shoulder 
103 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

shrug.  "Oh,  read  the  card  if  you're  curious," 
says  I. 

"I'm  not,"  says  he.  But  he  reached  for  the 
card,  all  the  same.  "Gerald  Osborn  Pitt.  Say, 
who's  he?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  says  I.  "The  stupid 
girl  usher  couldn't  remember  what  he  looked 
like  and  didn't  notice  which  row  he  was  in,  but 
I  rather  think  he  must  be  a  nice  man.  Don't 
you?" 

"No  doubt,"  sneers  Barry.  "They  usually 
are,  these  old  sports  who  send  flowers  and  candy 
to  actresses.  Huh!" 

"Perhaps  he  isn't  so  old,  after  all,"  says  I. 
"I'm  not  sure  which  one  Re  was,  but  there  was 
a  man  in  the  third  row,  middle  aisle  seat,  who 
fairly  beamed  at  me  all  through  the  perform- 
ance. He  was  a  little  bald  and  his  neck  was 
rather  thick  and  short,  but  he  did  have  nice 
eyes.  I  wonder  if  he'll  come  again  tomorrow 
night." 

"Bah!"  says  Barry.  "I  haven't  a  doubt  that 
he  will — if  his  wife  is  still  away." 

"They're  such  a  nuisance  at  times,  wives," 
says  I. 

Which  almost  had  Barry  pawing  his  front 
hoof.  You  can  kid  him  so  easy.  For  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  I  hadn't  the  least  idea  who  this  Pitt 

104 


GETTING  TAGGED  BY  GERALD 

person  might  be.  Perhaps  he  was  thick-necked 
and  shiny  on  the  dome.  You  can  always  see 
dozens  like  that  out  front  if  you  look  for  'em, 
and  I  suppose  one  could  work  up  any  number  of 
little  across-the-footlight  romances  if  one  had 
nothing  else  to  do.  But  take  it  from  me,  when 
you're  playing  a  part  like  the  flapper,  you  have 
just  as  much  time  for  that  sort  of  thing  as  a 
slack  wire  juggler  has  for  scratching  himself 
between  the  shoulder  blades. 

I  will  admit  being  a  bit  thrilled  when  the  sec- 
ond contribution  with  the  same  card  came  in. 
If  I  had  been  a  village  belle  in  my  schoolgirl 
days,  or  even  a  fairly  good  looker,  I  might  have 
taken  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  the  fatal 
gift  of  beauty  has  never  been  mine.  Not  so  that 
it  has  bothered  me.  Up  to  date  nobody  has 
ever  gone  crazy  over  my  gooseberry  green  eyes, 
my  carroty  hair,  or  my  cornstalk  figure.  Even 
Barry  Platt  doesn't  try  to  tell  me  that  I  could 
qualify  for  a  carnival  queen.  True,  in  my  make- 
up and  the  nifty  costume  I  wear  as  a  Detroit 
plutess  who's  been  shopping  on  the  Rue  Mar- 
chand,  I  expect  I'm  not  altogether  poisonous 
to  the  view ;  but  at  that  the  average  male  ought 
to  be  able  to  watch  me  from  the  fourth  row 
without  going  dizzy  in  the  head. 

Still,  here  was  this  bunch  of  hothouse  violets 
105 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

almost  as  big  as  my  head  and  a  round  box  of 
candy  all  embossed  with  gold  and  tied  up  with 
a  full  yard  of  cerise  satin  ribbon.  Somehow  I'd 
made  an  impression  on  somebody.  A  Mr.  Pitt. 
Well,  I  couldn't  hate  him  for  that.  Not  if  he 
was  old  enough  to  make  Methuselah  look  like  a 
quitter.  But  he'd  gone  far  enough.  Absolutely. 
He'd  said  it  with  flowers,  and  he'd  repeated  with 
bonbons,  and  so  far  as  I  was  concerned  that  cov- 
ered the  subject.  I'd  made  up  my  mind  that  any 
tiaras  or  gold  vanity  boxes,  if  he  got  that  silly, 
would  have  to  go  back.  No  old  man's  darling 
stuff  for  me. 

I  do  think  Barry  might  have  given  me  credit 
for  that  much  sense,  too.  But  it  seems  he  didn't, 
for  I'd  hardly  gotten  home  before  he  calls  up  on 
the  'phone  to  tell  me  that  he'd  just  remembered 
who  my  unknown  friend  was. 

"Really!"  says  I.  "How  clever  of  you!" 
"Not  at  all,"  says  Barry.  "Thought  you'd 
like  to  know  before — well,  before  you  got  in  too 
deep.  He's  the  Osborn  Pitt  who  figured  in  the 
double  divorce  case  that  was  in  the  papers  a 
couple  of  months  ago.  He  began  it  by  bringing 
suit  against  Mrs.  Pitt  on  account  of  a  bathing- 
suit  party  at  Deal  Beach,  and  she  came  back  by 
naming  a  movie  actress  and  telling  tales  about  a 
yachting  trip  to  Jeykill  Island.  Nice  mess  all 

1 06 


GETTING  TAGGED  BY  GERALD 

around,  but  the  lady  got  a  verdict  and  a  big  al- 
lowance. She  promptly  married  her  lawyer,  and 
it  seems  that  old  man  Pitt  still  favors  the  stage, 
eh?" 

"It  would  look  that  way,  wouldn't  it?"  says 
I.  "So  sweet  of  you  to  keep  me  posted,  Barry." 

"Oh,  I  say,  Trilby  May,"  he  protests.  "Don't 
get  grouchy  over  it.  I  didn't  mean  to " 

"No,  of  course  not,"  says  I.     "Good  night." 

Well,  that  was  the  way  matters  stood  at  10.45 
P.M.  next  evening  when  one  of  the  stage  hands 
passed  me  this  note  as  I  came  off  after  the  final 
curtain.  I  didn't  read  it  until  I'd  shut  the  dress- 
ing-room door  and  I  was  glad  I  hadn't,  for  I'm 
afraid  I  was  a  bit  impetuous  in  tearing  it  up. 
There  was  only  a  line,  scribbled  on  a  card. 
"Must  see  you  tonight.  Please  I"  And  the  card 
was  Gerald  Osborn  Pitt's. 

"The  old  fool!"  I  muttered. 

But  that  didn't  help  such  a  lot.  Neither  did 
throwing  my  costume  at  the  chairs,  nor  stamping 
my  foot.  For  the  fact  remained  that  I  was 
almost  as  much  frightened  as  I  was  peeved. 
And  as  a  rule,  you  know,  I'm  not  one  of  the  timid 
kind.  Hardly.  Yet  here  I  was,  just  as  coura- 
geous as  a  rabbit  hiding  under  a  bush.  For  the 
first  time,  I  believe,  I  felt  that  I  was  alone  in  the 
world  with  no  one  to  call  on. 

107 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

If  Barry  had  been  around  that  night  it  would 
have  been  different.  But  he  hadn't  shown  up. 
Letting  me  get  over  our  little  tiff  of  last  night, 
I  suppose.  I  might  have  asked  Sczernoff,  or 
O.  P.  Biggs  to  go  with  me  as  far  as  the  subway 
entrance.  But  what  should  I  tell  them?  That 
an  old  Wall  Street  sport  had  thrown  a  scare  into 
me  by  sending  in  a  mash  note?  No,  I  couldn't 
quite  see  myself  doing  that.  The  Russian  was 
too  hot-headed.  He'd  make  a  scene  of  it.  And 
I  didn't  know  Biggs  well  enough  to  guess  how 
he  would  take  it. 

But  before  I'd  finished  getting  into  my  street 
dress  I  had  my  chin  in  the  air  once  more.  Pooh  I 
If  I  couldn't  handle  a  goggle-eyed  old  sport  I'd 
better  quit  the  business.  I  still  had  a  tongue,  and 
even  if  I  hadn't  had  much  practice  in  telling  fond 
admirers  where  they  got  off  I  could  improvise 
something.  Anyway,  I'd  have  a  try. 

So,  without  saying  a  word  to  any  of  the  com- 
pany, or  even  waiting  to  tag  along  with  Auntie 
Bates  and  Daddy,  I  marched  through  the  stage 
door.  And  sure  enough,  waiting  near  the  exit, 
was  a  poddy  old  party  in  evening  clothes.  Per- 
haps I  didn't  give  him  the  cold  eye,  though.  It 
was  just  a  glance,  but  it  sure  was  frigid.  Maybe 
I  imagined  it,  but  I  was  certain  he  started  to 
follow  me.  Anyway,  I  must  have  speeded  up, 

108 


GETTING  TAGGED  BY  GERALD 

for  I  nearly  collided  with  a  youth  standing  by 
the  curb. 

"Sorry!"  says  I. 

"My  fault,  entirely,"  says  he.  "I  was  hoping 
you'd  see  me,  though." 

"Eh?"  says  I,  a  bit  gaspy. 

"You'll  let  me  drive  you  home,  won't  you?" 
he  went  on.  "The  car's  right  here." 

Then  I  took  a  good  look  at  him.  A  pale,  light- 
haired,  stringy  young  chap,  with  sloping  shoul- 
ders and  limp  arms — a  human  wax  bean.  And 
very,  very  youthful.  I  couldn't  guess  just  how 
young  he  was,  but  I  knew  he  couldn't  be  quite  so 
young  as  he  looked.  Still,  there  was  a  weary  look 
about  his  mouth.  Only  his  eyes  showed  any  signs 
of  his  really  being  a  live  one.  Dark,  glowing  eyes 
they  were,  and  they  were  watching  me  steadily. 

"Got  your  nerve  with  you,  haven't  you, 
sonny?"  says  I. 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so,"  says  he.  "My  knees 
are  almost  knocking  together,  though.  But  you 
will  come,  eh?  Please!" 

I  threw  another  glimpse  over  my  shoulder  at 
the  poddy  party.  He  had  stopped  and  was 
watching  us  curious.  To  see  what  I'd  do,  prob- 
ably. And  if  I  went  on  alone 

"All  right,  Percival,"  says  I.  "Where's  your 
bus?" 

109 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"This  one,"  says  he,  opening  the  door  of  a 
classy  coupe.  "But  my  name  isn't  Percival,  you 
know." 

"My  error,"  says  I,  climbhig  in  and  settling 
myself  next  to  the  driver's  seat. 

"I — I  thought  you  knew,"  he  goes  on,  "that 
I  was » 

"Say,  let's  get  started,  if  you  don't  mind," 
says  I.  "You  can  tell  me  all  about  yourself 
after  you've  put  a  few  blocks  between  us  and 
that  two-chinned  old  Romeo  over  there." 

"That  onel"  says  the  youth,  glaring  back  as 
he  shifted  gears.  "Say,  I've  a  good  notion  to 
stop  and " 

"Now  don't  blow  a  gasket,  sonny,  or  do  any- 
thing rash,"  I  advises  him.  "He'd  brush  you 
one  side  as  if  you  were  a  mosquito.  Besides, 
you  have  only  a  temporary  rating  yourself. 
Here's  your  turn  for  Fifth  Avenue.  Now  let's 
see;  who  is  it  you  say  you  are?" 

"Why,"  says  he,  rounding  past  the  Arch, 
"I'm  Gerald  Pitt,  you  know." 

"Wh-a-at!"  says  I,  edging  into  the  corner  of 
the  seat.  "Not  the  Gerald  Osborn  Pitt,  who's 
been  sending  me  flowers?" 

He  nods.  "I'd  intended  to  let  it  stop  there," 
says  he.  "Really!  But  I  just  couldn't."  , 

"Oh,  couldn't  you?"  says  I.  "See  here,  sonny, 
no 


GETTING  TAGGED  BY  GERALD 

there  must  be  some  mistake.  Don't  tell  me  you 
are  the  party  with  a  crimson  past — divorced  on 
account  of  a  movie  star  and  all  that?" 

"How  tiresome!"  says  he.  "No,  no!  That's 
Dad,  of  course.  Osborn  Pitt.  I'm  Gerald  Os- 
born,  and  I've  had  nothing  to  do  with  my  father 
since — well,  since  he  stirred  up  all  that  fuss 
about  mother." 

"Oh,  ho!"  says  I.  "So  you  thought  you'd 
work  up  a  little  affair  on  your  own  account,  did 
you  ?  Just  to  keep  the  family  name  on  the  front 
page,  eh?" 

"I  say,  Miss  Dodge !"  he  protests.  "Isn't  that 
rather  rough?  Of  course,  I'm  no  blushing  school 
kid.  I've  been  about  some.  But  I'm  no  rotter." 

"That's  comforting,"  says  I.  "Honest,  now, 
Gerald,  just  how  old  are  you?" 

"It  isn't  mere  years  that  count,  is  it?"  he 
comes  back. 

"But  I'm  curious,"  says  I.    "Eighteen?" 

"Nearly  nineteen,"  says  he. 

"Well,  well!"  says  I,  chuckling.  "Runs  in 
the  family,  doesn't  it?" 

"But  you  don't  understand,"  says  Gerald, 
slowing  up  for  the  cross  town  traffic. 

"Perhaps  not,"  says  I.  "Still,  I  should  say 
you  were  showing  some  speed — waiting  for  ac- 
tresses at  the  stage  door." 

in 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"I  never  have  before,  truly,"  says  he.  "And 
I  wouldn't  have  this  time  only — well,  I  wanted 
to  know  you,  Miss  Dodge,  and  I  couldn't  find 
any  other  way.  I  know  it  must  seem  a  bit  crude 
to  you,  but  I — I  just  had  to  do  it  that  way." 

"Why?"  I  asks. 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders.  "I  wish  I  could  tell 
you,"  he  goes  on. 

"I'm  stretching  my  ear,"  says  I.  "What  more 
do  you  want?" 

"I  can't  do  it  and  dodge  these  taxi  drivers," 
says  Gerald.  "But  if  you  wouldn't  mind  we 
might  stop  for  a  bite  to  eat  somewhere.  There's 
quite  a  decent  grill  a  few  blocks  up  where  we 
could  get  a  chop  or  a  rarebit.  That  is,  if  you 
can  trust  me  that  far." 

"It'll  be  taking  an  awful  risk,  Gerald,"  says  I, 
"but  I  think  I'll  chance  it,  for  I  am  hungry.  You 
see,  I'm  letting  you  get  away  with  the  whole 
program — the  pick-up  at  the  curb,  the  drive  in 
the  closed  car,  and  the  midnight  supper." 

"You — you're  perfectly  bully,  Miss  Dodge," 
says  he.  "I  just  knew  you  were." 

I  didn't  deny  it.  And  I  must  say  Gerald  had 
all  the  airs  of  a  man  about  town  as  he  tipped  the 
head  waiter  for  a  cozy  corner  table,  waved  away 
the  Japanese  flower  girl,  and  ordered  a  pot  of 
tea  instead  of  highball  glasses. 

112 


GETTING  TAGGED  BY  GERALD 

"I  suppose  you're  tired  of  being  told  how  ut- 
terly charming  you  are  as  'The  Flapper'?"  he 
begins. 

"Not  quite  wearied  to  extinction,"  says  I. 
"The  other  one  who  said  anything  like  that  was 
the  man  who  wrote  the  play." 

"No!"  says  he.  "But  you  are.  Perfectly  de- 
licious. I'm  almost  ashamed  to  tell  you  how 
many  times  I've  seen  the  piece.  Dropped  in 
just  by  accident  one  night,  and  I've  hardly  missed 
a  performance  since.  It  was  only  after  the  third 
'night  that  I  had  courage  enough  to  send  you  the 
roses.  You  weren't  offended,  I  hope?" 

"At  least,"  says  I,  "I  was  able  to  restrain 
my  rage.  So  you  think  I  make  a  good  flapper, 
do  you  ?  But  are  you  a  good  judge  ?" 

"I  ought  to  be,"  says  Gerald.  "I've  been  sur- 
rounded by  'em  all  summer  long.  You  see,  I've 

been  stopping  with  an  aunt  while  mother  was — 
er » 

"I  see,"  says  I.  "Honeymooning." 
He  pinks  up  in  the  ears  a  little  and  then 
hurries  on.  "Auntie  has  one  of  those  big 
places  in  the  Berkshires  where  my  cousins  have 
continuous  house  parties.  You  know — golf  and 
tennis  and  jazz,  dashing  back  and  forth  to  the 
country  club;  mixed  doubles  in  the  morning, 
mixed  foursomes  in  the  afternoon,  and  dancing 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

half  the  night,  with  fool  picnics  and  motor  trips 
thrown  in." 

I  nods.  "The  social  whirl,  eh?"  says  I. 
"Doings  of  the  younger  set.  You're  not  com- 
plaining of  the  life,  are  you?" 

"Bitterly,"  says  he.  "I  don't  care  for  sports. 
But  when  there  are  three  girls  to  one  man  what 
can  you  do?  And  such  silly  girls!" 

"Any  flappers?"  I  asked. 

"They  were  nearly  all  flappers,"  says  Gerald. 
"That  was  the  trouble.  Even  the  older  ones 
were  the  giddy,  frivolous  sort.  But  they  were 
all  alike.  They  all  did  their  hair  just  the  same, 
danced  the  same,  dressed  the  same,  and  said  the 
same  things.  Not  one  had  an  original  thought 
or  ever  had  a  serious  moment.  A  lot  of  butter- 
flies flitting  about  in  the  sun.  You  can't  imagine 
how  tiresome  such  a  crowd  can  be." 

"Then  I  don't  quite  see,"  says  I,  "why  you 
should  like  me  in  a  part  such  as  that." 

"Oh,  but  you  add  the  satirical  touch,"  says 
Gerald.  "I  don't  know  just  how  you  do  it,  either. 
You're  the  perfect  flapper,  and  yet  you  point  the 
finger  of  scorn.  You  express  exactly  what  I've 
been  thinking  of  them  and  couldn't  put  into 
words.  Anyone  can  see,  too,  that  behind  it  all 
you're  a  real  person.  If  you  weren't  you  couldn't 
make  the  flapper  in  the  play  such  a  silly.  That's 

114 


GETTING  TAGGED  BY  GERALD 

why  I  had  to  come  night  after  night.  And  the 
oftener  I  came  the  more  I  wanted  to  know  you. 
Say,  tell  me  about  yourself,  Miss  Dodge.  How 
long  have  you  been  on  the  stage?" 

"Oh,  ages,"  says  I.    "Almost  a  month." 

"Really!"  says  he.  "Is  that  all?  And  before 
then?" 

"No,"  says  I.  "I'm  not  going  deep  into  my 
past.  It's  not  thrilling  enough.  Besides,  here 
comes  the  welsh  rarebit  and  the  tea." 

"But  I — I  want  to  know  all  about  you,"  in- 
sists Gerald. 

"That's  a  whale  of  an  ambition,"  says  I. 
"What's  the  big  idea?" 

"Because  I  need  someone  like  you  in  my  life," 
says  he,  paying  no  attention  to  the  waiter.  "I've 
been  looking  for  you  for  years.  Honestly.  I've 
been  lonely.  There  were  one  or  two  fellows  at 
prep,  school  who  were  more  or  less  worth  while. 
But  they've  rather  dropped  out.  And  all  the 
girls  I've  known  have  been  useless.  So  now  that 
I've  found  you  I  mean  to " 

"Shall  I  serve  the  rarebit,  sir?"  breaks  in  the 
waiter. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  says  Gerald.  "You  see, 
Miss  Dodge, — Say,  do  you  care  if  I  call  you 
Trilby  May?" 

"I  can  stand  it  if  the  waiter  can,"  says  I. 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Oh,  bother  him!"  says  Gerald. 

"Quite  so,  sir,"  says  the  waiter.  "Don't  mind 
me,  sir." 

"I'm  not,  thank  you,"  says  Gerald.  "And 
please,  Trilby  May " 

"Couldn't  you  save  it  up,"  I  breaks  in,  "until 
after  we've  had  something  to  eat?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  sighs  Gerald. 

The  waiter  seemed  a  bit  disappointed,  too. 
Anyway,  he  hovered  around  doing  useless  things 
until  we  were  well  under  way  with  our  supper 
and  Gerald  had  shooed  him  off. 

"Now,"  says  Gerald,  "perhaps  we  can  really 
talk." 

"You  weren't  doing  such  a  poor  job  at  it  be- 
fore," says  I.  "But  what's  it  all  leading  up  to?" 

"Just  this,"  says  he  prompt.  "I  don't  want 
to  lose  you,  now  that  I've  found  you,  Trilby 
May." 

"Eh?"  says  I,  and  I  expect  I  was  gawping  a 
trifle.  "Whaddye  mean,  lose?" 

"I  want  you  for  my  very  own,"  he  rushes  on. 
"Of  course,  you'll  not  want  to  leave  the  stage 
at  once,  but  I  think  it  will  be  better  that  you 
should  in  a  month  or  so.  Then  we  can  go  abroad 
and — I  know  just  the  spot.  It's  in  southern 
France,  down  in  the  old  Basque  country, 

where " 

116 


GETTING  TAGGED  BY  GERALD 

"Just  a  moment,  Gerald  boy,"  I  interrupts. 
"Let  me  get  this  straight.  Is  this  something 
like  matrimony  you're  proposing?" 

"Oh,  naturally,"  says  he.  "I  know  a  minister 
— the  one  who  officiated  at  mother's  affair.  I  can 
get  him  on  the  'phone  in  the  morning.  Let's  see, 
what  date  shall  I  tell  him?  Today  is  Friday. 
Well,  how  about  Sunday  afternoon  at  5  o'clock?" 

He  asked  it  as  easily  and  as  offhand  as  if  he 
was  making  a  date  with  his  dentist.  And  for  a 
minute  or  so  all  I  could  do  was  sit  there  and 
stare  at  him.  Then  I  came  to  and  chuckled.  I 
reached  over  and  took  his  hand. 

"No,  no!"  says  I,  as  he  tried  to  squeeze  my 
fingers.  "I  just  wanted  to  look  at  your  wrist- 
watch.  Twelve-fifteen.  You've  hung  up  a  rec- 
ord, Gerald." 

"I  beg  pardon,"  says  he. 

"Almost  one  hour  flat,"  says  I.  "And  if  that 
isn't  getting  a  jump  on  Cupid  then  I'd  like  to 
hear  the  other  returns." 

"You — you  mean  I've  been  a  little  abrupt 
about  it?"  he  asks. 

"Something  like  that,"  says  I. 

"Perhaps  I  was,"  says  he.     "It  didn't  seem 
like  that  to  me.    Why,  it  seems  as  if  I'd  always 
known  you,  Trilby  May.     But  this  isn't  getting 
us  anywhere,  is  it?    Will  Sunday  do?" 
9  117 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

I  shook  my  head.  "Nor  Monday,  nor  Tues- 
day, nor  any  day  of  the  week  that  I  can  think 
of  just  now,"  says  I. 

"You — you're  not  saying  you  won't  have  me 
at  all?"  he  demands. 

"I'm  trying  to  keep  up  with  you,  Gerald," 
says  I.  "Yes,  that's  the  thought.  I'm  turning 
you  down.  Absolutely." 

He  took  it  like  a  little  man,  too.  "You  think 
I'm  too  young,  I  suppose?"  says  he. 

"If  I'd  had  time  to  think  at  all,"  says  I,  "I 
believe  that  would  be  the  first  mark  against  you." 

"Oh,  well!"  says  he.  "Then  I  might  as  well 
go  back  to  prep,  school  and  take  up  the  old  grind 
again.  I'd  cut  all  that,  you  know." 

"Since  when?"  says  I. 

"Oh,  I  left  a  week  ago  Saturday,"  says  he. 

"With  your  speed  they'll  hardly  know  you've 
been  gone,"  I  suggests. 

"Oh,  I  can  fix  that  up  all  right,"  says  Gerald. 
"And  say,  it's  been  bully  to  know  you.  We  can 
still  be  friends,  can't  we?" 

"Old,  old  friends,"  says  I.  "I'll  send  you  my 
photo  with  that  written  on  it." 

"Will  you,"  says  he.  "Say,  that  will  be  per- 
fectly corking." 

I  hope  it  was,  and  that  all  the  senior  class 
envied  Gerald  when  they  saw  it  on  his  chiffonier. 

118 


GETTING  TAGGED  BY  GERALD 

Only  I  wonder  what  he  told  them.  As  for  me, 
I  haven't  confessed  to  anybody.  The  nearest  I 
came  to  telling  anyone  was  that  night  when  I 
came  in  at  twelve-thirty  and  found  Inez  yawnirg 
in  her  chair. 

"Where  you  been  so  long?"  she  asks. 

"Me?"  says  I.  "Oh,  I  stopped  to  rock  the 
cradle." 


Chapter  VIII 
One  Up  On  the  Twins 

TWICE  I  heard  it  before  I  paid  much  atten- 
tion. It  sounded  like  a  scraping  on  the  win- 
dow ledge.  And  if  I  hadn't  been  busy  counting 
the  number  of  motions  to  this  pull-the-string 
stunt  I  should  have  stopped  and  taken  a  look. 
But  you  mustn't.  Stop,  I  mean.  That's  what 
the  Professor  says,  and  when  I  part  with  a 
whole  twenty-five  for  expert  advice  you  bet  I'm 
going  to  follow  it. 

You  see,  the  Professor  told  me  to  start  with 
twenty  times  and  add  five  a  day  until  I'd  worked 
up  to  forty.  Thirty  was  my  mark  this  day  and 
I  was  nearly  there  when  there  came  this  scraping 
noise  once  more.  And  say,  I  wasn't  costumed 
to  give  any  public  exhibition.  Hardly. 

You  get  me,  I  expect.  Morning  exercises. 
May  sound  foolish,  but  I  just  gotta  have  'em,  on 
account  of  my  restless  disposition  and  early 
bringing  up.  Do  you  know  how  I  used  to  start 
the  day  when  I  was  a  girl  back  in  Minnesota? 
At  Dodge's  Clearing,  to  be  exact?  I'm  afraid 

120 


ONE  UP  ON  THE  TWINS 

it  would  make  your  back  ache  if  I  went  through 
the  whole  list,  but  my  bef ore-breakfast  activities 
included  such  things  as  chopping  an  armful  of 
wood,  building  a  fire  in  the  kitchen  stove,  lugging 
two  pails  of  water  from  the  spring,  feeding  Old 
Bill,  the  white  horse,  milking  two  cows,  and 
other  little  tricks  that  Maw  Dodge  insisted  were 
good  for  a  growing  girl. 

Some  might  think  that  now  I'd  make  up  for 
all  that  by  pounding  the  pillow  an  hour  or  so 
extra  every  morning.  That's  the  way  Inez  fig- 
ures to  get  even  for  all  the  early  toil  that  was 
wished  on  her.  But  we  have  different  tempera- 
ments, Inez  and  I.  She  can  seem  to  get  all  the 
exercise  she  needs  by  chewing  gum,  while  I  have 
to  thrash  around.  First  I  tried  following  a  dia- 
gram I  found  in  a  health  magazine,  but  that  got 
kind  of  monotonous  and  I  hunted  up  this  physi- 
cal culture  specialist  who  invented  these  little 
games  for  me. 

And  say,  when  you've  pulled  the  string  thirty 
times  or  more  hand  running,  you've  worked  up 
a  circulation.  Try  it  once.  Knees  and  arms  out 
as  you  make  the  squat,  and  hands  sharply  to  your 
hips  as  you  come  up.  You'll  look  like  a  human 
jumping  jack,  but  you'll  feel  fine  afterwards. 
That  is,  if  you're  not  too  lame.  And  gradually 
you  can  take  on  the  rest  of  the  program. 

121 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

That's  how  I  keep  myself  down  to  130  and 
am  able  to  put  real  pep  into  my  part  as  The 
Flapper  every  night.  What  I'd  like  better  would 
be  a  five-mile  romp  through  real  fields  and  real 
woods,  but  when  you're  living  on  Park  Avenue 
it  can't  be  done.  So  I  get  all  the  sunlight  and 
air  I  can  by  staging  my  jumping-jack  act  in  front 
of  a  big  south  window  pulled  all  the  way  down 
from  the  top.  Of  course,  I  had  to  have  the 
shade  fixed  so  it  could  be  run  up  over  the  lower 
half  from  the  bottom,  and  it  was  a  hunch  that 
somebody  was  scrabbling  around  on  the  fire- 
escape  behind  that  shade  that  made  me  finally 
stop  and  stretch  my  ear. 

Odd,  isn't  it,  how  suspicious  you  are  of  your 
neighbors  here  in  New  York?  Especially,  if 
you  live  in  one  of  these  big  apartment  houses 
that  covers  nearly  a  whole  block.  Ours  is  that 
kind.  It's  built  around  a  big  court  in  the  middle, 
where  there  are  a  few  dusty  cedars  and  a  dry 
fountain.  The  taxis  drive  in  around  this  circle 
and  unload  at  the  carriage  entrance.  Some  of 
the  apartments  have  windows  opening  only  on 
the  court,  but  I'm  thankful  that  Uncle  Nels  had 
sense  enough  to  pick  one  with  outside  exposure. 
We  have  all  the  air  there  is  between  us  and  New 
Jersey  and  these  clear  fall  mornings  we  can 
almost  see  Miss  Liberty  turning  her  back  on  the 

122 


ONE  UP  ON  THE  TWINS 

home  of  the  brave  and  the  land  where  the  free 
lunch  once  flourished  but  doesn't  any  more. 

I  suppose  there  are  enough  folks  living  in  this 
one  building  to  populate  two  places  like  Tama- 
rack Junction.  And  out  there  I  would  have 
known  most  of  'em  by  their  first  names;  how 
many  times  they'd  been  married,  if  any;  what 
church  they  took  of,  or  let  alone;  and  whether 
they  had  the  Saturday  night  bath  habit  or  saved 
it  up  for  Fourth  of  July. 

But  here  in  this  eleven-story  structural  steel 
hive  all  I  know  by  sight  are  the  elevator  boys 
and  the  day  and  night  doormen  who  nod  to  me 
friendly  in  the  hope  of  getting  another  tip.  Of 
course,  I  get  glimpses  of  people  in  the  vestibule 
and  riding  up  and  down,  but  I  can't  tell  whether 
they're  regular  neighbors  of  ours  or  visiting 
piano  tuners.  There  are  parties  living  over  us 
and  on  either  side,  but  we're  just  as  well  ac- 
quainted with  'em  as  though  they  inhabited  Pata- 
gonia, Finland  and  Mozambique.  Occasionally 
we  hear  a  dull  thud  and  we  guess  that  the 
people  upstairs  have  dropped  something,  but 
we  don't  know  what  or  why,  and  don't  try  to 
figure  out.  They  might  be  tossing  the  bric- 
a-brac  at  each  other,  and  then  again  it  might  be 
a  game  of  leap-frog.  We  always  suspect  the 
worst,  though. 

123 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

So  when  I  heard  this  noise  on  the  fire  escape 
I  thought  at  once  of  sneak  thieves,  even  though  it 
was  only  9.30  A.M.,  which  wouldn't  be  sticking  to 
union  hours  for  second-story  workers.  I  slipped 
on  a  baby-blue  kimono  and  looked  around  for 
some  lethal  weapon.  The  deadliest  thing  I  could 
find  was  a  papier-mache  battle-ax  that  hung 
from  an  imitation  bronze  shield  over  the  mantel- 
piece. Tearing  that  loose  I  hopped  up  on  the 
windowsill,  stuck  my  head  over  the  lower  sash 
and  looked  out. 

And  there,  crouching  on  the  fire  escape,  was 
about  the  weirdest  looking  female  person  I've 
ever  met.  She  was  a  lop-sided,  skinny,  goggle- 
eyed,  middle-aged  party  with  mud-colored  hair 
twisted  into  a  knob  on  the  top  of  her  head, 
jutting  front  teeth  and  a  loose  under-lip. 
From  her  sloppy  costume  I  guessed  that  she 
must  be  somebody's  cook  or  maid,  and  the  fact 
that  she  has  on  neither  hat  nor  wrap  shows  that 
she'd  probably  climbed  either  up  or  down  from 
one  of  the  other  apartments.  Anyway,  she  was 
squatting  there  trying  to  peek  through  a  crack  in 
the  shade  and  listen  at  the  same  time. 

"Say,  what's  the  big  idea?"  I  called  out. 

And  when  she  rolled  those  bulgy  eyes  of  hers 
up  and  saw  me  just  above  her  she  nearly  col- 
lapsed. After  a  gasp  or  two  she  muttered  some- 

124 


ONE  UP  ON  THE  TWINS 

thing  I  couldn't  get  and  started  wriggling  toward 
the  iron  stairs  leading  down. 

"No,  you  don't!"  says  I,  waving  the  fake 
battle-ax  menacing.  "Another  move  like  that 
and  I'll  make  a  banana  split  out  of  you.  Under- 
stand?" 

"Holy  Mother !"  says  she,  crossing  herself. 

"Stick  where  you  are  until  I  open  this  window 
from  the  bottom,"  I  warns  her.  "There  you 
are !  Well,  shinny  in  here,  old  girl,  and  tell  us 
what  it's  all  about." 

She  wasn't  anxious  to  come.  Not  a  little  bit. 
But  a  few  fancy  motions  with  the  trick  ax  per- 
suaded her.  She  slid  inside  and  stood  knock- 
kneed  and  trembling. 

"Come,  now!"  says  I.  "What's  your  line; 
jewelry,  furs,  or  aren't  you  particular?  And 
who  told  you  I  had  anything  worth  stealing?" 

"No,  no,  Miss!"  she  protests.  "True  as 
Heaven,  I  ain't  no  thief." 

"Of  course  not,"  says  I.  "Just  climbed  up 
there  to  sun  yourself,  I  suppose?" 

"Yuh — y — y — yes !"  she  agrees  hasty. 

"See  here,  you  comic  valentine,"  says  I,  "tell 
me  who  you  are,  where  you  came  from,  and  why, 
or  I'll " 

"I — I'm  Gussie,"  she  breaks  in.  "Just  Gus- 
sie,  that's  all." 

125 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Who's  Gussie?"  I  demands. 

"Downstairs,"  says  she,  pointing.  "Just 
under." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  says  I.  "You  work  for  the  folks 
below,  do  you?" 

She  nods  and  adds:  "The  Veilhoffs.  Yes, 
I  works  for  the  Veilhoffs." 

"Why  not  keep  at  it,  then?"  says  I.  "Why 
go  skittering  around  like  this  ?  You  know  you're 
giving  a  realistic  imitation  of  a  lady  burglar?"; 

At  that  Gussie  protests  long  and  vigorous. 
She  calls  on  most  of  the  saints  to  defend  her. 
She  gets  down  on  her  knees  and  pleads  with  me 
to  believe  that  she's  an  honest  woman.  Why, 
she  says  she  has  been  with  the  Veilhoffs  for  sev- 
enteen years  and  has  never  been  accused  of 
taking  so  much  as  a  penny.  It's  all  more  or  less 
convincing,  too,  for  the  poor  thing  is  scared  al- 
most stiff,  and  if  she  wasn't  lovely  to  look  at 
before  she's  less  so  now,  with  her  pop  eyes  rolled 
up,  her  lips  trembling,  and  her  bony  fingers 
weaving  themselves  in  and  out. 

"All  right,  all  right!"  says  I.  "But  if  you 
didn't  come  to  steal,  what  were  you  doing 
there?" 

She  admits  draggy  that  she  was  trying  to 
peek  in,  that's  all.  "I — I  wants  to— to  see  what 
youse  was  doin\"  she  adds. 

126 


ONE  UP  ON  THE  TWINS 

I  shook  my  head.  "No,  Gussie,"  says  I.  "I'm 
afraid  you  can't  get  away  with  that.  I  don't 
believe  you'd  take  such  a  big  chance  just  because 
you  were  curious.  I  expect  the  best  thing  I  can 
do  is  to  call  in  the  police  and " 

"I'll  tell,"  she  announces  sudden.  "It — it 
was  Anna  Veilhoff  made  me  come." 

"Eh?"  says  I. 

"The  fattest  twin,"  says  she.  "That's  Anna. 
But  Rosie,  she  didn't  say  I  shouldn't.  She 
wanted  to  know,  too,  Rosie  did,  just  as  much  as 
Anna." 

"Know  what?"  I  demands. 

"About  you,"  says  Gussie,  "and  what  you  do 
every  mornin'  when  you  go  thump-thump  on  the 
floor." 

"Oh,  come !"  says  I.  "I'll  admit  I've  known 
some  nosey  females,  but  never  any  quite  so  bad 
as  that.  Why,  they  don't  even  know  me  by 
sight,  do  they?" 

Gussie  says  the  Veilhoffs  have  seen  me  once 
or  twice  in  the  elevator;  at  least,  they  thought 
they  had.  And  somebody  about  the  place  had 
told  'em  I  was  an  actress. 

"Still,"  says  I,  "that  hardly  accounts  for  their 
sending  you  on  such  a  risky  spying  trip  as  this. 
Who  are  the  Veilhoffs,  anyway?" 

And  by  pumping  Gussie  freely  I  got  a  fairly 
127 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

good  description.  They  were  old  maid  twins 
who  lived  with  an  old  bachelor  brother.  They'd 
been  born  and  brought  up  in  Brooklyn,  and  until 
last  winter  had  always  lived  in  an  old-fashioned 
house  down  on  Jeroloman  street.  But  when 
brother  sold  the  old  home  as  part  of  a  site  for 
an  office  building,  and  the  house  had  to  be  torn 
down,  they  moved  across  the  river  and  became 
regular  New  Yorkers ;  that  is,  instead  of  a  home 
that  they  owned,  they  had  so  many  cubic  feet  of 
space  that  they  rented.  And  they  didn't  like  it, 
either. 

On  Jeroloman  street  they'd  had  a  little  patch 
of  back  yard  where  Anna  used  to  set  out  the  gera- 
niums in  the  spring.  Here  they  couldn't  even 
keep  a  single  flower  pot  on  the  fire  escape  or 
window  ledge  without  getting  a  call  from  some 
inspector.  And  they  were  so  high  up  that  they 
couldn't  see  people  down  in  the  street.  Not  to 
know  'em,  anyhow.  Only  the  tops  of  their  hats. 
On  Jeroloman  street  they  used  to  sit  every  after- 
noon at  the  front  windows  and  watch  folks  come 
and  go  from  the  apartment  houses  across  the 
street,  and  guess  who  they  were  and  where  they 
were  going.  Anna  had  a  little  strip  of  mirror 
fastened  outside  her  window  and  she  could  see 
anybody  coming  from  way  down  the  street,  and 
would  tell  Rosie  about  'em,  and  if  it  was  worth 

128 


ONE  UP  ON  THE  TWINS 

while  Rosie  would  stretch  her  neck  out  and  look 
down,  too,  as  they  went  by.  And  all  the  time 
they  would  talk  the  people  over. 

"You  don't  mean  they  did  this  every  after- 
noon?" I  asked. 

"From  three  to  six,"  says  Gussie. 

"Must  have  been  an  exciting  indoor  sport," 
says  I.  "How  about  the  rest  of  the  day?  What 
did  they  do  mornings?" 

According  to  Gussie  the  twins  didn't  leave  the 
hay  until  about  nine  o'clock,  when  she  took  their 
breakfast  in  to  them.  Then  they  just  fussed 
around  in  their  rooms,  combing  their  hair  and 
polishing  their  finger  nails  and  getting  dressed. 
That  took  them  until  nearly  noon.  Then  they 
sat  up  in  the  living  room  and  did  some  kind  of 
crochet  until  lunch  time.  After  lunch  they  had 
to  have  their  naps. 

"Must  have  needed  a  rest  by  then,"  says  I. 
"But  I  don't  suppose  they  really  did  any  sleep- 
ing?" 

"Uh-huh,"  says  Gussie.  "Nournahalf. 
Oughta  hear  'em  snore." 

Then  came  the  three-hour  rubberneck  orgie, 
and  at  six  they  got  ready  for  dinner.  Brother 
Herman  came  in  at  six-thirty  to  the  minute. 
They  sat  and  listened  for  him  to  open  the  front 
door.  If  he  was  a  bit  late  they  began  to  worry. 

129 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

If  he  was  as  much  as  a  quarter  of  an  hour  over- 
due they  were  almost  in  a  panic  and  talked  of 
telephoning  to  police  headquarters.  When  he 
did  show  up,  on  those  tragic  occasions,  he  had 
to  tell  them  over  and  over  again  just  what  had 
happened.  Then  in  the  evening  they  sat  around, 
all  three  of  'em.  Sometimes  Anna  and  Herman 
played  rummy,  or  double  solitaire.  Rosie  didn't 
play  cards.  It  made  her  head  bad.  Maybe  once 
a  month  they  went  to  the  movies.  Herman 
wanted  to  go  out  oftener,  but  the  twins  wouldn't 
let  him  go  alone  and  it  was  too  much  trouble  for 
'em  to  get  ready. 

"They  watch  him  close,  them  two,"  says 
Gussie.  "Afraid  he'll  get  married.  Huh! 
Him  I" 

"He's  no  gay  charmer,  eh?"  I  suggests. 

"Old  and  fat  and  bald,"  says  Gussie.  "Makes 
lotta  money,  though.  Makes  paper  boxes.  Big 
factory.  Three  hundred  girls  in  it.  He  don't 
pay  'em  much.  Gets  'em  in  to  learn  the  trade 
and  when  they  want  more  pay  he  turns  'em  off. 
That's  the  way  he  fools  the  unions.  Hates  labor 
unions,  Herman  does.  I  hear  him  talk  about 
'em  a  lot." 

"Yes,  Gussie,"  says  I,  "I  imagine  you  do. 
You  may  not  look  like  much  of  a  mental  ab- 
sorber, but  I  can  see  that  there's  mighty  little 

130 


ONE  UP  ON  THE  TWINS 

you  miss.  What  about  to-day's  report,  though? 
If  I  let  you  go  back  what  kind  of  a  tale  are  you 
going  to  feed  the  twins?" 

"I — I  dunno,"  says  Gussie,  blinking.  "I  don't 
find  out  yet  what  makes  the  thumps." 

"Now,  honest  to  goodness,  Gussie,"  says  I, 
"do  you  mean  that  those  two  fat  old  maids  got  so 
curious  over  a  little  thing  like  that?  Enough  to 
send  you  climbing  up  a  fire  escape?" 

She  insists  that  it's  so.  "What  for  should  I 
risk  my  neck,  then?"  she  demands.  "I'm  scared 
to  do  it,  but  that  Anna  says  I  gotta  come.  She 
look  soft,  Anna,  but  she's  hard.  In  here."  And 
Gussie  taps  herself  on  the  left  side;  to  indicate 
her  heart,  I  suppose.  Then  she  adds :  "I  oughta 
go  back.  They'll  be  gettin'  worried." 

"Serve  'em  right,"  says  I.  lfl  only  wish  there 
was  some  way  we  could — Oh,  I  say !" 

One  of  my  foolish  thoughts  had  struck  me 
and  as  usual  I  proceeded  to  carry  it  out  at  once. 

"You  can't  go,  Gussie,"  says  I.  "No.  Abso- 
lutely not.  You're  a  prisoner.  Understand? 
You've  been  captured  by  a  desperate  actress,"  I 
goes  on,  grabbing  up  the  fake  ax  and  flourishing 
it.  "You're  locked  in  this  room,  tied  to  a  chair. 
See?  Like  this." 

With  that  I  picked  up  a  silk  scarf,  passed  it 
around  her  waist,  and  knotted  it  behind  the  chair. 

131 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"But  your  arms  are  free,  Gussie,"  says  I. 
"And  you're  not  gagged.  So  you  can  telephone 
for  help.  Go  on.  Call  up  Anna." 

I  shoved  the  'phone  over  where  she  could 
reach  it  and  made  her  ask  for  the  Veilhoff  apart- 
ment. Also  I  whispered  to  her  just  what  she 
should  say.  So  this  is  the  way  the  message 
reached  the  fattest  twin: 

"Yes,  this  is  Gussie.  I'm  upstairs.  Uh-huh  I 
Inside.  That  actress  did  it.  I  think  she's  crazy. 
She's  got  me  tied  to  a  chair  and  she  wants  me  to 
tell  what  for  I  came.  She  say  if  I  don't  she  get 
the  police.  I  think  that's  what  she's  gone  for 
now.  If  you  don't  come  up  quick  and  let  me  out 
I  hafta  tell.  Yes,  or  go  to  jail.  Then  you'll 
hafta  come  to  court  and  tell.  So  you  gotta  hurry. 
By  the  fire  escape.  It's  the  only  way." 

"Well?"  I  asks.    "What  did  she  say?" 

"I  dunno,"  says  Gussie.  "Anna,  she  make 
funny  noises." 

"Sort  of  gaspy?"  says  I.  "Yes,  she  naturally 
would.  But  I'll  bet  she  comes.  Let  me  take  a 
look  out  of  the  window.  Oh,  gosh,  what  a  sight ! 
I  hope  the  folks  in  the  opposite  apartment  aren't 
missing  this." 

For  as  I  gazed  down  the  fire  escape  to  the  next 
landing  I  could  see  this  fat  female  in  a  boudoir 
cap  and  dressing  robe  crawling  out  of  the  window 

132 


ONE  UP  ON  THE  TWINS 

directly  beneath.  She  was  having  some  struggle, 
too,  for  she  wasn't  built  for  that  sort  of  an  exit. 
Somebody  behind  was  helping  her,  evidently  the 
other  twin.  At  last  she  was  out,  but  she  was 
afraid  to  stand  up  so  she  poised  there  on  hands 
and  knees.  Then  I  heard  her  arguing  with  the 
one  inside. 

"Come  on,  Rosie,"  she  was  saying.  "Yes, 
you  must,  too.  I  can't  ever  get  up  there  alone. 
And  suppose  that  crazy  woman  gets  back  before 
we  can  untie  that  fool  Gussie?  I  don't  care. 
You've  got  to  come.  Here!  I'll  pull  you 
through.  Give  me  your  hand." 

"It's  Anna,  the  master  mind,"  I  bulletined  to 
Gussie.  "She's  making  Rosie  come  along  with 
her.  She's  dragging  her  out.  My,  but  they  are 
fat  I  The  Veal-loaf  sisters,  I'd  call  'em.  Now 
they're  started.  They're  scrambling  up  on  all 
fours,  just  as  graceful  as  cows  climbing  a  lad- 
der." 

"I'll  bet  they're  scared,"  chuckles  Gussie. 

"They  look  it,"  says  I.  "Especially  Anna. 
What  a  face!  Like  a  prize  pig's.  And  those 
little  eyes  of  hers  are  sticking  out  like  shoe-but- 
tons. Now  she's  stopping  for  breath.  It  makes 
her  shudder  every  time  she  glances  down.  I 
can  see  her  fat  shoulders  shiver." 

"I  wish  I  could  see,  too,"  says  Gussie. 
10  133 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"No,"  says  I.  "You're  a  prisoner.  Besides, 
they'll  be  here  in  a  minute  or  so.  Never  would 
win  a  climbing  contest,  either  of  'em.  But  they're 
almost  up.  Now  you  sit  perfectly  still,  Gussie, 
while  I  hide  behind  this  closet  door.  Don't  say 
a  word,  either." 

"What — what  you  gonna  do  to  Anna?"  de- 
mands Gussie. 

"I'm  going  to  hand  her  the  thrill  of  her  life," 
says  I.  "Watch." 

Through  the  crack  between  the  door  and  the 
jamb  I  could  watch  the  window.  And  when 
these  two  purple-tinted  faces  appeared  over  the 
ledge  I  had  all  I  could  do  to  hold  in  the  snickers. 
For  they  did  look  foolish,  staring  in  bug-eyed. 
Particularly  after  they'd  spotted  Gussie  tied  to 
the  chair. 

"It — it's  so,"  gasps  Anna.  "You — you  go  in 
and  untie  her,  Rosie." 

"Oh,  I  can't!"  protests  the  other  sister.    "I— 
I'm  afraid." 

"But  you  must,"  insists  Anna.  "My  heart  is 
bad  enough  now.  Go  on.  I'll  boost  you  in." 

She  was  about  to  do  it,  too,  when  I  cut  loose 
with  my  little  mad  scene.  First  I  let  go  a  regular 
cowboy  yell.  "Ye-e-eouw!  Wow!  Wheel" 
Then  I  came  bounding  from  behind  the  closet 
door,  waving  the  battle-ax  and  doing  a  war 

134 


ONE  UP  ON  THE  TWINS 

dance  about  the  room.  I  brought  up  alongside 
of  Gussie,  grabbed  her  firmly  by  the  topknot, 
and  went  through  the  motions  of  scalping  her. 

"Ha,  ha !"  I  shouted.  "You  will  come  spying 
on  the  Mad  Prairie  Flower,  will  you?  Ha,  ha  1" 

I  paid  no  attention  to  the  two  at  the  window, 
and  pretended  not  to  see  them,  but  out  of  the 
corner  of  my  eye  I  could  watch  every  move  they 
made.  At  first  they  clutched  each  other  by  the 
arm  and  poised  spellbound.  Then  they  began 
to  wriggle  back  and  in  a  moment  or  so  they  had 
disappeared.  Tiptoeing  over  to  the  window  I 
could  see  them  floundering  backward  down  the 
iron  stairs,  like  a  pair  of  overfed  seals  doing  a 
vaudeville  stunt  for  the  first  time.  They  may 
have  been  slow  coming  up,  but  they  were  speedy 
enough  going  back. 

"Come  on,  Gussie,"  says  I,  slipping  the  scarf 
loose.  "Come  see  the  twins  doing  the  crab  act." 

Gussie  seemed  to  enjoy  the  performance,  too. 
"Look!"  says  she.  "See  Anna  dive  in  the  win- 
dow. I  never  see  her  move  so  quick  before. 
Now  she's  safe  home  again.  And  she  don't  care 
if  I  get  killed.  Not  her." 

"I  fear,  Gussie,"  says  I,  "that  your  Anna  is 
a  more  or  less  self-centered  old  girl.  But  she's 
had  a  jolt  this  morning  that  ought  to  last  her  a 
long  time.  Now  you  may  go  down  and  relieve 

135 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

their  minds.  Tell  them  I  came  out  of  my  spell 
and  turned  you  loose.  No,  you  needn't  climb 
down  the  fire  escape.  I'll  let  you  out  into  the 
hallway.  And  say,  tell  'em  if  they're  still  curious 
about  the  thumps  on  the  floor  they  can  climb  up 
and  pay  another  windowsill  call  any  time  they 
feel  like  it." 

As  I  shut  the  hall  door  behind  her  I  heard 
Inez  call  from  her  room.  She  wants  to  know 
who's  been  here  and  what  has  been  going  on. 

"Oh,  not  much,"  says  I.  "I've  just  been  giv- 
ing the  Veal-loaf  twins  the  first  before-breakfast 
exercise  they  ever  indulged  In.  You  should  have 
been  on  hand.  It  was  worth  watching." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez,  "I  don't  know  any  twins 
like  that." 

"No?"  says  I.    "Then  you've  missed  a  lot." 


Chapter  IX 
Fame  Nods  at  Trilby  May 

E/ERYBODY  seemed  quite  cheered  up  over 
it  except  me.  And  I'll  admit  I  was  just  as 
much  pleased  at  the  prospect  as  a  cat  that's 
about  to  be  thrown  into  the  pond. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Barry!"  I  pleaded.  "Couldn't 
this  be  avoided  somehow?" 

"Why,  Trilby  May  Dodge  I"  says  he,  shocked. 
"After  I've  schemed  and  pulled  wires  for  a  week 
to  bring  it  off!  Besides,  this  isn't  the  sort  of 
thing  one  tries  to  duck.  Distinctly  not.  Why, 
they'll  probably  give  you  a  half  page  on  the  front 
of  the  Sunday  dramatic  section,  and  play  up  your 
pictures  strong.  Do  you  know  what  that's 
worth?" 

I  didn't.  "But  can't  it  be  done  without  my 
being  interviewed?"  I  insists.  "Can't  you  write 
up  something  and  give  it  to  'em,  or  let  Mr.  Chick 
Bradley,  the  official  press  agent,  do  it?" 

No,  Barry  says  it  can't  be  worked  that  way. 
And  it's  only  because  he  happens  to  be  a  friend 
of  a  friend  of  Ollie  Owens,  who  is  probably  the 

137 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

best  known  dramatic  editor  in  town,  that  he  was 
able  to  arrange  the  thing  at  all. 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "Then  this  isn't  Fame  tapping 
at  the  door;  it's  just  a  case  of  dragging  the  old 
girl  in  at  the  end  of  a  rope,  eh?  How  disap- 
pointing!" 

You  know  I'd  always  thought  that  when  ac- 
tresses got  written  up  In  the  papers  that  way  it 
was  because  they'd  been  kind  to  some  poor  devil 
of  a  reporter,  and  that  what  was  printed  about  'em 
was  just  another  laurel  wreath  laid  reverently 
at  their  feet.  But  Barry  explains  different. 

"Real  fame,"  says  he,  "is  when  the  producer 
sends  out  three  road  companies,  each  advertised 
as  'the  original  New  York  cast.'  No  danger  of 
that  happening  this  season,  though.  In  fact, 
Trilby  May,  it's  a  question  as  to  how  much 
longer  'The  Flapper'  can  be  induced  to  flap  at 
all.  You've  noticed  how  slim  the  houses  have 
been  lately?  But  if  Ollie  Owens  gives  us  the 
sort  of  boost  he's  capable  of  that  may  pull  us 
through.  So  you  want  to  be  all  primed  to  give 
him  something  worth  printing." 

"But  Barry,"  says  I,  "that's  just  what  I  can't 
do.  Only  think!  I've  been  born  oftener  than 
I've  been  intervieweS  and  I'm  sure  I  shall  make 
a  mess  of  it.  Besides,  this  Mr.  Owens  is  a 
frightful  highbrow,  isn't  he?" 

138 


FAME  NODS  AT  TRILBY  MAY 

"Oh,  Ollie's  a  decent  chap,  all  right,"  says 
Barry.  "Of  course,  he's  a  wonder  at  phrase 
slinging,  but  he  doesn't  put  on  any  lugs  when  he 
meets  folks.  Kind  of  big  and  fat  and  good- 
natured  looking,  you  know,  and  wears  his  hair 
long  and  dresses  rather  sloppy,  with  his  pockets 
stuffed  full  of  papers  and  two  or  three  books 
tucked  under  one  arm.  You'll  get  on  fine  with 
him.  He's  heard  how  clever  you  are  and  all 
you'll  have  to  do  will  be  to  shoot  over  some  of 
your  snappy  repartee." 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "Listens  simple,  doesn't  it? 
Just  be  clever,  eh?  About  what,  for  instance?" 

"Oh,  tell  him  about  your  fads,"  suggests 
Barry,  "and  your  pets.  Leading  ladies  always 
get  a  lot  of  space  that  way." 

"But  I  haven't  any  fads,  Barry,"  says  I,  "and 
you  know  very  well  there  isn't  an  animal  of  any 
sort  about  the  place.  I  don't  even  own  a 
canary." 

"Fake  'em,  then,"  says  Barry.  "Now  let's 
see — fads.  How  about  mountain  climbing? 
Crazy  over  it,  aren't  you?  And  you're  just 
waiting  for  next  summer  so  that  you  can  get  out 
into  the  Canadian  Rockies  and  conquer  a  peak 
that  you've  already  tried  to  scale  twice  before. 
There  you  are !  Feed  that  to  him.  Fill  in  the 
details.  As  for  pets — well,  how  about  a  big 

139 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

alligator?  Keep  him  in  a  bathtub  here  in  the 
apartment,  don't  you,  and  exercise  him  on  the 
roof  every  morning?  Say,  that  would  get  you 
in  the  headlines." 

"No,  Barry,"  says  I.  "You  don't  know  what 
a  poor  liar  I  am.  I  couldn't  do  it  well  at  all. 
If  I  had  your  practice  now " 

But  when  Barry  is  in  earnest  about  a  thing 
there's  no  use  trying  to  throw  the  switch.  At 
such  times  he  has  a  single-track  mind  and  his 
blue  eyes  are  steady  and  serious.  He  argues  that 
it  is  my  duty  to  be  interviewed.  It  is  something 
I  owe  to  Ames  Hunt,  the  producer,  to  myself, 
and  to  him.  I  really  ought  to  look  on  it  as  a 
privilege,  a  lucky  turn  of  the  wheel.  Even  the 
biggest  people  in  the  profession  would  jump  at 
the  chance  of  being  interviewed  for  such  a  paper 
as  the  one  Ollie  Owens  writes  for. 

"Think  of  the  thousands  and  thousands  who 
will  read  what  you  tell  me,"  suggests  Barry. 

"That's  precisely  what  sends  the  cold  shivers 
up  and  down  my  back,  Barry  boy,"  says  I.  "I 
can  see  them  reading  that  piece;  nice,  pink- 
cheeked  old  gentlemen,  at  their  clubs.  And 
they'll  look  over  the  top  of  their  gold-rimmed 
glasses  at  some  other  pink-cheeked  old  gentle- 
man and  snort:  "Trilby  May  Dodge,  eh?  Who 
the  syncopated  synonyms  is  she  anyway?'  Or 

140 


the  honest  working  man  will  run  across  it,  after 
he's  read  the  sporting  page  and  looked  over  the 
comics.  He'll  be  sitting  in  his  trousers  and  un- 
dershirt with  his  heels  up  on  the  sill  of  the  flat's 
one  front  window,  overlooking  the  elevated 
road.  And  he'll  shout  out  to  his  wife  in  the 
kitchen:  'Hey,  Maw!  Liss'n  to  this  what  some 
fool  actorine  has  got  to  say.'  And  honest,  Barry, 
I  can't  think  of  a  thing  I  want  to  tell  all  those 
people.  Not  a  word." 

"Oh,  that'll  be  all  right,"  says  Barry  sooth- 
ing. "Ollie  will  see  that  you  say  the  right  thing. 
He'll  get  something  interesting  out  of  you. 
That's  his  specialty.  And  anyway,  the  chief 
thing  is  to  get  your  name  and  your  picture 
printed  and  let  folks  know  that  'The  Prince  and 
the  Flapper'  is  still  running.  You  may  not  like 
doing  it,  but  it's  necessary." 

"Like  taking  a  pill  or  paying  your  taxes,  eh?" 
says  I.  "Very  well.  Let  me  know  when  he's 
coming." 

Of  course,  Inez  and  Uncle  Nels  had  to  have 
it  all  explained  to  them,  and  I'll  say  it  was  some 
job.  At  first  Inez  seemed  to  have  a  wild  idea 
that  being  interviewed  was  like  having  your 
adenoids  removed,  and  asks  if  they're  not  going 
to  give  me  gas  or  anything." 

"That's  a  clever  idea,  Inez,"  says  I.  "I  wish 
141 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

it  could  be  done  under  an  anaesthetic.  But  it 
isn't  that  kind  of  an  operation.  No.  Mr. 
Owens  is  coming  here  without  any  instruments  of 
any  kind,  except  a  fountain  pen,  perhaps.  He's 
going  to  ask  me  questions  and  then  print  what 
I  say  in  the  Sunday  paper." 

Inez  looks  shocked  and  indignant.  "You — 
you  ain't  gonna  let  him?"  she  demands. 

"That's  the  sad  part  of  it,"  says  I.  "I'm  sup- 
posed to  encourage  him." 

"Must  be  funny,"  says  Inez.    "Can  I  watch?" 

"Absolutely  no,"  says  I.  "I  shall  be  fussed 
enough  as  it  is  without  having  you  sitting  there 
blinking  at  me  and  perhaps  indulging  in  an  occa- 
sional snicker.  Besides,  as  I  understand  it,  inter- 
viewing is  a  private  and  personal  performance. 
It  isn't  done  as  a  threesome,  nor  by  mixed 
doubles.  You'll  stay  in  the  other  room,  with 
the  door  shut." 

"Huh  I"  says  Inez,  indicating  indifference. 
But  I  could  see  her  sizing  up  the  key-hole  at  the 
same  time. 

As  for  Uncle  Nels,  when  he  got  the  drift  of 
what  was  scheduled,  he  shook  his  head  solemn. 
"Don't  you  do  it,"  says  he.  "Never  say  any- 
thing to  them  newspaper  fellers.  I  did  once 
when  I  didn't  know  who  he  was.  About  some 
timber  I  was  selling  up  by  Hibbing.  He  puts  it 

142 


FAME  NODS  AT  TRILBY  MAY 

in  the  paper,  too,  the  dumhuvud,  and  it  gets  me 
into  a  lawsuit  with  the  government." 

"But  wasn't  it  timber  on  an  Indian  reserva- 
tion you  were  selling,  Uncle  Nels?"  I  asks. 

"What's  the  difference?"  says  he.  "The  gov- 
ernment don't  know  unless  that  fool  newspaper 
feller  puts  it  in  the  paper.  Lotta  trouble  come 
after  that.  Don't  you  tell  'em  nothing." 

"No  fear  of  my  telling  much,"  says  I.  "I'm 
short  of  things  to  tell." 

I  really  thought  so,  too.  But  you  never  know 
what  you  can  do  until  you  try.  By  5  P.M.  next 
afternoon  I'd  found  out. 

It  was  just  after  luncheon  that  Barry  'phoned. 

"What  do  you  think?"  says  he.  "Ollie  Owens 
can't  come.  Has  to  go  over  to  Washington  to 
watch  a  try-out  of  a  play  he's  interested  in." 

"Good  I"  says  I.    "Then  it's  all  off  ?" 

"No,"  says  Barry.  "He's  sending  an  as- 
sistant of  his — T.  Temple  Fogg — a  young  col- 
lege hick  who's  been  in  the  ad.  department,  but 
has  wormed  his  way  into  handling  some  of  the 
press  stuff.  I  remember  seeing  him  when  I  was 
on  the  staff.  Looks  like  a  poor  prune.  Thinks 
he's  a  whizz  as  a  writer,  though.  Lord  knows 
what  he'll  turn  out.  But  it'll  be  better  than  noth- 
ing. He'll  be  there  at  four  o'clock.  Wish  I 
could  be  on  hand  to  help  you  out  with  him.  I'll 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

see  if  I  can't  get  Ames  Hunt  to  run  up.  Doubt 
it,  though.  So  long.  Best  of  luck." 

So  I  was  in  for  it.  I  was  going  to  be  plugged 
in,  as  the  'phone  girls  say,  on  the  public  press, 
with  a  direct  wire  to  the  ear  of  Old  Subscriber, 
Pro  Bono  and  A  Mother  of  Four,  not  to  mention 
a  million  Smiths  and  half  the  Cohens.  And  I 
was  expected  to  talk  for  their  amusement  and 
instruction.  Me!  Say,  as  I  sat  thinking  that 
over  I  was  caught  by  a  wave  of  modesty  that 
came  rushing  in  from  space  and  had  me  flounder- 
ing about  panicky.  I  got  up  and  paced  around 
the  apartment  restless. 

"You  want  him  to  come  quick,  eh?"  asks  Inez, 
watching  me  curious. 

"I  do,  and  then  again  I  don't,"  says  I. 
"Maybe  you  never  waited  for  the  dentist?  No. 
Then  you  can't  appreciate  the  sensation." 

Even  at  that  the  wretch  was  nearly  half  an 
hour  late.  But  finally  I  heard  the  buzzer  ring 
and  Annette  came  in  to  announce  that  Mr.  Fogg 
was  in  the  sitting  room. 

"What  does  he  look  like,  Annette?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  he  ain't  such  a  much,"  says  she. 

Annette  isn't  such  a  poor  describer,  either. 
There  was  nothing  awesome  or  impressive  about 
T.  Temple  Fogg.  That  is,  unless  you  count  the 
black  pompadour  which  sprouted  from  his  palTid 

144 


FAME  NODS  AT  TRILBY  MAY 

brow  and  waved  in  heavy  magnificence  over  his 
narrow,  pasty  face.  It  was  a  bumper  crop  of 
hair,  all  right ;  more  than  you  would  look  for  on 
such  a  peanut-shaped  head,  and  you  could  guess 
that  he  must  have  a  well-trained  barber  to  have 
kept  it  safe  from  the  shears.  Outside  of  that, 
though,  Mr.  Fogg  was  just  a  slim,  finicky  dressed 
youth  with  a  pair  of  big,  dark  eyes  that  seemed 
to  wear  a  tired  expression.  And  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  I  wasn't  crazy  about  his  looks  I  tried 
to  greet  him  as  chirky  and  friendly  as  I  knew 
how.  I  believe  I  said  something  about  how  nice 
it  was  of  him  to  take  all  this  trouble  just  to  see 
poor  little  me.  I'm  sure  I  meant  well  enough, 
but  it  seemed  to  be  just  the  wrong  thing  to  say. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  says  he,  dropping  into 
a  chair,  "we  will — ah — eliminate  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Bromidic  openings  irritate  me  excess- 
ively." 

"Sorry,"  says  I.  "Perhaps  you'll  be  kind 
enough  to——" 

"Quite  so,"  says  he.  "No  prologues,  then. 
The  direct  attack.  That  is  the  method  of  the 
French  writers  and  I  vastly  prefer  it.  Now  let's 
see,  I  presume  you  wish  to  begin  with  a  para- 
graph about  how  fascinated  you  are  with  your 
art.  But  please  don't  insist  that  you  are  wedded 
to  it.  I  really  couldn't  write  that,  you  know, 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

without  feeling  ill.  Will  fascinated  do,  or  shall 
we  say  merely  that  acting  is  to  you  the  breath 
of  life?" 

He  was  such  a  bored,  patronizing  youth  that 
all  I  could  think  of  for  a  moment  or  so  was  what 
a  joy  it  would  be  just  at  that  instant  to  grab 
something  soft  and  mushy  and  rub  it  into  his 
pompadour.  A  squash  pie,  say.  But  there  was 
nothing  of  the  kind  handy,  so,  of  course,  I  didn't. 

"No,"  says  I.  "Let's  ditch  any  talk  about 
art.  You  mean  my  work,  I  expect;  my  job  on 
the  stage?  Well,  I've  got  nothing  to  offer  on 
that  subject." 

Mr.  Fogg  looks  a  little  jarred,  but  he  merely 
humps  his  eyebrows  and  goes  on.  "As  you 
choose,"  says  he.  "I  suppose,  though,  you  had 
rather  tell  how  you  created  the  character  of  'The 
Flapper'  almost  out  of  whole  cloth;  evolved  it, 
as  it  were,  from  your  inner  consciousness,  with 
but  very  little  help  from  the  meager  outlines 
furnished  by  the  author.  Eh?" 

"Say,  where  do  you  get  a  slant  like  that?" 
says  I. 

"I — I  beg  pardon?"  says  he.  "But  that  is  the 
usual  line  for  a  star  to  take." 

"Is  it?"  says  I.  "Well,  I'm  off  it— clean. 
And  don't  you  make  me  out  as  handing  any 
knocks  to  Barry  Platt.  Not  even  a  tap.  They're 

146 


FAME  NODS  AT  TRILBY  MAY 

his  lines  in  the  piece,  understand,  and  they're 
mighty  good  ones.  Most  of  the  business,  too, 
he  wrote  in  himself,  and  what  he  didn't  he  helped 
me  work  up.  Anything  else  I  do  that's  worth 
while  was  drilled  into  me  by  Ames  Hunt." 

"Oh,  I  say!  Really?"  says  he,  staring  at  me 
with  his  mouth  open. 

"Quite,"  says  I,  echoing  his  pet  word. 

For  a  while  there  Mr.  Fogg  didn't  seem  to 
know  just  where  he  was  at.  It  looked  as  if  I'd 
completely  wrecked  his  running  schedule.  But 
after  he  had  soothed  himself  by  lighting  a  ciga- 
rette he  recovered  enough  to  try  another  tack. 

"I  see,"  says  he.  "An  abnormal  case.  Rather 
interesting,  too.  Then  suppose  we  pass  on  to 
your  career.  Perhaps  you  would  care  to  sketch 
that  out  for  an  eager  public;  your  first  appear- 
ances, well-known  actors  with  whom  you  have 
been  associated,  your  early  triumphs,  and  so  on." 

I  threw  my  head  back  and  laughed.  It  wasn't 
a  polite,  rippling  little  laugh,  either.  I'm  afraid 
it  was  a  rather  coarse,  out-door  cackle,  such  as 
I  used  to  give  back  home  when  Paw  tried  to  lead 
a  frisky  calf  out  to  pasture  and  got  tangled  up 
in  the  rope. 

You  know  there  are  some  persons  who  bring 
out  the  best  and  smoothest  traits  you  have.  And 
then  again  there  are  others  who  affect  you  just 

147 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

the  opposite.  T.  Temple  Fogg  was  in  Class  2. 
He  had  a  Back  Bay,  Boston,  accent,  for  one 
thing.  Oh  my  yes!  Every  a  as  broad  as  the 
back  of  your  hand,  and  all  the  r's  buttered  until 
they  slid  so  easy  from  the  tongue  you  couldn't 
tell  them  from  h's.  He  fairly  oozed  culture  and 
even  when  he  flicked  his  cigarette  ashes  into  a 
potted  fern  he  did  it  with  a  refined  flick.  So 
I  simply  ached  to  jolt  him.  Besides,  he  showed 
so  plainly  how  bored  he  was  at  having  to  pump 
an  interview  out  of  a  third-rate  actress  that  I 
couldn't  resist  cutting  loose. 

"Listen,  Foggy,  old  dear,"  says  I.  "You've 
started  something  now.  For  years  I've  been 
wanting  to  unload  on  the  yearning  public  the  true 
story  of  my  climb  to  fame.  Ever  hear  of  Tama- 
rack Junction?  Well,  it's  a  water-tank  station 
on  the  Iron  Range  railroad  that  runs  north  from 
Duluth.  There's  Feltner's  general  store,  the 
Bon  Ton  Ice  Cream  Parlor,  and  Ole  Swenson's 
pool  room.  That's  the  gay  white  way  of  Tama- 
rack Junction.  Scattered  around  within  half 
a  mile  of  the  station  are  perhaps  forty  pala- 
tial residences,  some  with  corrugated  iron 
roofs  and  some  shingled.  Also  there  is  Ham 
Bigger's  feed  store,  with  Red  Men's  Hall 
overhead.  I've  kept  that  for  the  last  because 
that  was  the  scene  of  my  first  histrionic  triumph 

148 


FAME  NODS  AT  TRILBY  MAY 

— in  the  hall,  I  mean,  not  in  the  feed  store. 
Uh-huh.  My  genius  burst  forth  there  when  I 
was  going  on  fifteen  and  thrilled  an  audience  of 
nearly  eighty-five,  counting  the  janitor  and  all  the 
Bigger  youngsters,  who  got  in  free.  I  gave  'em 

'Lasca.'     You  remember 

the  crack  of  the  whips, 
the  clatter  of  hoofs — 
And  Lasca. 

"Say,  I  nearly  woke  up  Jim  Feltner,  who  was 
taking  his  usual  evening  nap  in  the  far  corner 
by  the  big  stove.  Then  I  followed  that  up  with 
that  chapter  from  'The  Pilot,'  where  the  ship  is 
taken  through  the  shoals  during  a  northeaster. 
And  the  next  issue  of  The  Biwabik  Weekly  Her- 
ald said  that  I  had  held  my  audience  spellbound. 
Wait  I  I  think  I  can  get  you  the  clipping." 

T.  Temple  gave  me  a  cold,  pained  look.  "If 
you're  through  trying  to  spoof  me,  we'll  get  on," 
says  he.  "What  I  really  want  you  to  tell  me  is 
this:  Is  there  a  definite  stage  psychology  that 
has  to  do  with  the  character  of  your  audiences?" 

"O-o-o,  such  long  ones!"  says  I.  "Couldn't 
you  slip  that  to  me  simpler ;  in  freshman  English, 
say?" 

It  pains  him  to  do  it,  but  he  makes  the  try. 
"I  mean,"  says  he,  "doesn't  there  come  a  mo- 
ment during  each  performance  when  you  feel 
ll  149 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

that  you  have  won  your  audience ;  that  you  have 
them  with  you,  as  it  were?" 

"Sure!"  says  I.     "When  you  get  'em  going." 

"And  this  feeling  comes  regularly  every  night, 
does  it?"  he  goes  on.  "Perhaps  not  at  the  same 
point  in  the  play,  but  at  some  point." 

I  nods  careless.  "Usually  about  in  the  middle 
of  my  first  scene  with  the  Prince,"  says  I. 
"They're  apt  to  be  a  bit  soggy  up  to  then." 

"But  it  is  something  that  you  are  distinctly 
conscious  of?"  he  insists.  "You  feel  it  approach- 
ing, don't  you,  quite  gradually;  you  know  that  it 
has  arrived?" 

"Generally  it  is  some  fat  man  who  starts 
chuckling,"  says  I. 

He  waves  that  aside  peevish.  "I  mean,"  says 
he,  "that  there  is  a  pervasive  quality  to  the  thing, 
which  is  not  to  be  mistaken  ?  Eh  ?  Like — er — 
like " 

"Like  a  skunk  on  a  damp  night,"  I  suggests. 

Which  not  only  brought  a  shudder  out  of 
T.  Temple,  but  made  him  squirm  in  his  chair. 

"Really,  Miss  Dodge!"  he  protests. 

"Oh,  well,  strike  out  the  skunk,"  says  I.  "But 
if  you've  ever  been  near  one  with  the  wind  south- 
east you'll — however,  spiel  along.  What  next?" 

But  Mr.  Fogg  had  lost  the  thread.  He  tosses 
away  his  cigarette  and  wipes  his  pallid  brow. 

150 


FAME  NODS  AT  TRILBY  MAY 

"Perhaps,"  says  he,  "we  shall  be  safer  if  we  con- 
tinue along  the  personal  line.  You  stepped  into 
this  part  of  The  Flapper,  as  I  understand,  quite 
by  accident.  But,  of  course,  you'd  had  a  certain 
amount  of  dramatic  experience.  Tell  me,  what 
had  you  done  before  this?" 

"Couldn't  we  skip  that?"  I  asks. 

"My  dear  Miss  Dodge!"  says  he,  spreading 
out  his  hands.  "I  am  supposed  to  write  some- 
thing about  you,  remember.  Thus  far  I  have 
succeeded  in  getting  absolutely  nothing  out  of 
which  I  can  make  copy.  Now,  if  you  please, 
your  training." 

"All  right,"  says  I,  "if  I  must.  I  taught 
school  for  two  terms  at  Tamarack.  Then,  after 
I  ran  away  from  home,  I  was  waitress  in  a 
miners'  boarding  house  at  Coleraine,  up  on  the 
Range.  From  there  I  drifted  to  Druot's,  in  Du- 
luth — ice  cream  parlor — and  later  to  New  York, 
where  I've  done  almost  everything  from  dipping 
orangeade  in  a  sidewalk  booth  to  doing  a  window 
demonstration  of  an  electric  washer.  There! 
How's  that?" 

If  I'd  given  him  the  squash  pie  shampoo  I 
don't  believe  he'd  have  been  a  bit  madder.  His 
slim  fingers  twitched,  a  spot  of  color  fired  up  in 
his  pasty  cheeks,  and  his  big  eyes  glowered  re- 
sentful. He  was  even  gnawing  his  under  lip. 

151 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Oh,  snap  it  out!"  says  I.  "Don't  keep  it  all 
bottled  up  or  you're  liable  to  blow  a  gasket." 

But  he  couldn't  be  tempted.  He's  altogether 
too  nice  and  refined  a  young  Phi  Delta  Kappa  to 
talk  back  to  a  lady.  "Very  well,"  says  he,  cold 
and  scornful.  "You  have  seen  fit  to  waste  my 
time  and  your  own,  and  having  no  better  ma- 
terial, I  shall  be  obliged  to " 

Which  was  just  where  Annette  bounces  in  to 
say  that  Mr.  Ames  Hunt  has  arrived.  In  he 
comes  at  her  heels,  too,  and  proceeds  to  be  genial 
and  friendly. 

"Ah,  Trilby  May  I"  says  he.  "Well,  how  are 
you  two  getting  on,  eh?" 

"He  hasn't  bitten  me  on  the  arm,"  says  I, 
"but  I  think  he  was  just  about  to." 

"What!"  says  Hunt.  "You  don't  mean  it, 
surely?" 

"Miss  Dodge  has  been  pleased,"  says  Foggy, 
"to  be  absurd;  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  rather  ill 
bred." 

"Why,  hello!"  says  Hunt,  peering  into  the 
dim  corner  at  him.  "It  isn't  Owens  at  all,  is  it? 
Let's  see,  you  are -" 

T.  Temple  stated  his  full  name. 

"Hm-m-m !"  says  Ames  Hunt,  rubbing  his  chin. 
"Fogg?  Fogg?  Can't  we  have  a  little  light  here, 
Trilby  May?  Thanks.  Ah,  now  I  remember!" 

152 


FAME  NODS  AT  TRILBY  MAY 

"Me,  sir?"  asks  T.  Temple. 

"Exactly!"  says  the  great  manager.  "The 
name  should  have  been  enough,  but  that  hair 
clinched  it.  Come  from  up  near  Scarboro, 
Maine,  don't  you?" 

"Why — er — yes,"  admits  Foggy. 

"I  knew  you  must  be  the  same  youth,"  says 
Hunt.  "You  brought  in  the  steamed  clams  and 
melted  butter.  Wonderful  clams,  too.  And  the 
friend  who  was  entertaining  me  with  his  shore 
dinner  told  me  that  your  mother  was  the  best 
clam  cook  along  the  Maine  coast.  Unique  place 
she  had  there,  too.  I've  often  bragged  about  it 
since.  Quite  a  famous  resort,  I  understand. 
And  let's  see,  she  has  made  enough  out  of  it  to 
send  how  many  children  through  college?" 

T.  Temple  gulps  once  or  twice,  but  finally  he 
answers.  "Three,"  says  he.  "My  two  sisters 
and  myself.  But  I — ah — I'd  rather  not  have 
that  known  here  in  New  York.  I'm  just  starting 
on  my  literary  career,  you  see,  and — er " 

"I  see,"  breaks  in  Hunt.  "We  will  consider 
that.  Just  a  moment,  though.  What  was  it, 
Miss  Dodge,  which  you  said  to  Mr.  Fogg  that 
he  resented  so  strongly?" 

"Nothing  but  a  few  facts  about  myself,"  says 
I.  "You  know — Tamarack  Junction,  Druot's 
and  the  rest.  He  wanted  to  know  what  I'd  been 

153 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

doing  and  I  gave  it  to  him  straight.  That's  all, 
Mr.  Hunt." 

He's  some  diplomat,  I'll  say.  "Well,"  says 
he,  "I  think  that  Mr.  Fogg  is  going  to  find  all 
that  entirely  satisfactory,  and  I'm  very  sure  he 
will  turn  out  a  corking  good  article  for  the  Sun- 
day dramatic  page.  Eh,  Mr.  Fogg?" 

T.  Temple  was  pink  in  the  ears  about  then, 
but  he  muttered  something  about  doing  his  best 
and  then  he  made  a  quick  exit. 

Did  he  produce?  You  bet  he  did.  Say,  after 
I  read  that  piece,  all  about  what  an  original  and 
fascinating  young  lady  genius  I  was,  I  had  to  go 
look  in  the  glass  to  see  if  I'd  changed  any  over 
night.  And  the  witty  repartee  he'd  printed  as 
having  been  tossed  off  by  me,  and  the  clever  re- 
marks I  I  read  'em  all  to  Inez. 

"When  you  say  that?"  she  asks.  "I  don't 
hear  such  things." 

"How  careless!"  says  I.  "Somebody  must 
have  left  some  cotton  in  that  keyhole." 


Chapter  X 
Inez  Hangs  Up  a  Record 

INEZ  had  yawned  three  times  and  then  she 
had  sighed,  so  I  knew  she  was  about  to  reg- 
ister something  in  the  way  of  discontent. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "is  it  anything  on  your  mind, 
or  is  it  too  much  chicken  a  la  king  on  the  diges- 
tion? Shoot." 

But  Inez  only  blinks  at  me  and  shakes  her 
head,  from  which  I  gather  that  her  thought, 
whatever  it  was,  had  not  yet  got  itself  pictured 
out  on  the  background  of  her  limited  vocabu- 
lary. It  was  on  the  way,  though,  so  I  went 
ahead  draping  myself  in  a  snappy  new  street 
costume  I'd  acquired  since  last  pay  day  and  gave 
her  time.  And  when  she  did  break  into  speech 
she  didn't  say  much. 

"You  gonna  walk  again?"  she  asked. 

"That's  the  leading  idea,"  says  I.  "East 
Nineteenth  Street,  to  have  tea  in  a  studio  apart- 
ment with  a  Mrs.  Blair,  someone  Ames  Hunt 
towed  in  at  the  last  matinee.  She's  a  gushy 
female  who  wears  jade  ear  danglers  and  has  a 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

streak  of  gray  through  her  front  hair ;  a  widow, 
I  understand,  with  a  past  that  has  had  its  hectic 
spots." 

"Huhl"  says  Inez.    "Why  you  go  there?" 

"Chiefly  because  it's  somewhere  to  go,"  say  I. 
"Then,  in  a  rash  moment,  I  promised  her  I 
would.  Rather  a  patron  of  the  arts,  Mrs.  Blair 
is,  you  know;  specializes  in  young  comers — 
budding  painters,  musicians  making  their  first 
concert  tours,  actors  who  have  made  a  hit  in 
some  part,  and  so  on.  Her  fad  is  to  get  'em 
together.  She  told  me  there  was  a  young  Hun- 
garian sculptor  who  was  crazy  to  meet  me. 
Maybe.  Most  of  those  birds  are  half  locoed 
anyway.  But  it'll  be  a  change  from  tramping 
through  the  park  and  I  may  get  a  laugh  out  of 
that  bunch  of  freaks.  Also  this  talented  goulash 
fancier  may  have  a  good  line  to  spring.  You 
never  can  tell." 

My  idea  was  that  a  little  chatter  like  this 
might  cheer  Inez  up  for  the  afternoon,  but  it 
works  just  the  opposite.  In  fact,  she  comes 
as  near  getting  a  sulk  on  as  she  can  with  that 
placid  face  of  hers. 

"I  don't  go  nowhere,"  she  complains.  "No- 
body wants  to  meet  me." 

"And  no  garden  handy  where  you  can  find  a 
fuzzy  worm  to  eat,  eh?"  says  I.  "Tough  luck, 

156 


INEZ  HANGS  UP  A  RECORD 

Inez.  But  then,  yours  is  a  hard  lot.  You  have 
to  get  up  every  forenoon,  decide  how  you'll  have 
your  eggs,  allow  Annette  to  help  you  get  dressed, 
worry  along  until  lunch  time,  drive  or  shop  or 
something  to  kill  the  whole  afternoon,  change 
for  dinner,  struggle  through  five  or  six  courses, 
take  Uncle  Nels  to  the  movies,  and  so  to  bed. 
It's  an  awful  grind,  isn't  it,  for  anyone  with 
your  delicate  constitution?" 

But  it's  just  as  much  use  trying  to  kid  Inez 
as  giving  a  traffic  cop  an  argument.  Anything 
as  subtle  as  sarcasm  she  sheds  as  easy  as  hail 
bouncing  off  a  battleship. 

"Fellers  don't  go  crazy  over  me,"  she  insists. 

As  usual,  Inez  had  stated  her  case  with  bald 
frankness.  No  beating  about  the  bush  for  her, 
but  a  plain,  honest  fessing  up  of  facts.  I  knew 
just  what  the  answer  ought  to  be,  too,  but  I  hated 
to  hand  her  anything  so  raw.  Still,  I'd  been 
looking  for  an  opening  like  this  for  some  time; 
and  after  all,  what  are  friends  for  if  you  can't 
depend  on  them  to  bat  you  between  the  eyes 
now  and  then?" 

"Brace  yourself,  Inez  dear,"  says  I,  "for  I'm 
going  to  shoot  it  to  you  rough.  Are  you  all 
set?  Then  listen:  the  male  of  the  species  sel- 
dom stretches  his  neck  after  anything  that  tips 
the  scales  over  120,  unless  it's  a  side-show  freak 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

who  needs  a  special  chair  when  she  sits  down. 
No.  He  may  measure  forty  inches  or  more 
around  the  equator  himself,  and  shave  over  two 
chins  every  morning,  and  have  to  guess  whether 
his  shoelaces  are  tied  or  not;  but  when  he  rolls 
a  wistful  and  romantic  orb  you'll  notice  that  it's 
generally  as  some  slim  Jane  swishes  by." 

Inez  squirms  a  bit  and  the  chair  creaks  under 
her,  but  she's  one  of  the  kind  that  not  only 
swallows  the  whole  dose  but  laps  the  spoon. 
"You — you  think  I'm  too  fat?"  she  asks. 

"That's  something  between  you  and  the  bath- 
room scales,  Inez,"  says  I.  "You  know  where 
the  hand  points  when  you  step  on  the  platform 
these  days.  And  what  else  can  you  expect  when 
you  play  the  dessert  both  ways  and  take  your 
exercise  climbing  into  taxi  cabs?" 

Perhaps  it  took  two  minutes  for  all  that  to 
sink  in,  but  when  Inez  makes  a  shift  she's  apt 
to  do  it  prompt.  "I'm  gonna  walk,  too,"  says 
she.  "With  you,  eh?" 

"Good!"  says  I.  "It's  only  a  matter  of  thirty 
blocks  or  so,  and  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Blair  will 
mind  if  I  ring  you  in  on  the  tea.  I'll  call  her  up 
and  make  sure." 

Mrs.  Blair  said  she'd  be  delighted,  so  half 
an  hour  later  we  started  out,  and  although  those 
pumps  Inez  put  on  weren't  exactly  hiking  shoes 

158 


INEZ  HANGS  UP  A  RECORD 

she  made  the  trip  in  fairly  good  shape.  Also 
Inez  got  away  with  her  first  sandwich  fight  with- 
out making  any  particular  breaks,  mainly  because 
I  parked  her  in  a  corner  and  led  up  to  her  early 
in  the  game  a  parlor  Bolshevist  who  had  started 
to  give  me  an  earful  about  the  downtrodden. 
He  was  a  wild-eyed  old  scout  who  only  wanted 
someone  to  listen  to  him  and  he  talked  to  Inez 
for  nearly  an  hour  without  discovering  that  she 
hadn't  said  a  word.  Meanwhile  a  poet  and  a 
couple  of  Greenwich  Village  painters  had  asked 
to  be  presented,  but  had  failed  to  edge  in  with 
any  remarks. 

"What  a  stunning  creature  your  friend  is," 
observes  Mrs.  Blair,  eyeing  Inez.  "Who  is  she 
and  what  does  she  do?" 

"Oh,  she's  just  Miss  Petersen,"  says  I,  "and 
she  doesn't  indulge  in  any  form  of  art." 

"Anyway,  she's  simply  superb,"  insists  Mrs. 
Blair. 

And,  come  to  notice  her  close,  Inez  did  look 
rather  classy  in  that  black,  fur-trimmed  walking 
dress  with  the  nifty  feather  toque.  It  was  a  new 
outfit  that  Annette  had  Eelped  her  pick  out,  and 
it  seemed  to  show  up  her  transparent  rose-leaf 
complexion  and  the  wheat-colored  hair  better 
than  ever.  Too  bad  to  waste  all  that  on  an 
antique  pink  red,  but  I  thought  it  was  safer  than 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

letting  the  others  snicker  over  her  one-syllable 
conversation. 

As  for  the  promised  Hungarian  sculptor,  he 
wasn't  there  at  all — got  his  dates  mixed,  most 
likely — and  while  nobody  else  showed  signs  of 
going  nutty  over  me  I  did  swap  more  or  less 
friendly  chatter  with  two  or  three  near-celebri- 
ties whose  names  and  fame  I  didn't  get  quite 
straight.  One  impulsive  party — a  Russian 
dancer — insisted  that  I  was  just  the  person  he'd 
been  looking  for  to  go  on  as  his  partner  in  a 
charity  turn  he'd  promised  to  do  at  the  Ritz,  and 
before  I  could  stop  him  he'd  put  a  record  on  the 
music  machine  and  was  tossing  me  around  reck- 
less, an  act  which  got  quite  a  hand  from  the  other 
guests. 

"That,"  says  he,  finishing  up  with  a  bear  hug, 
"I  will  call  'The  Dance  of  the  North  Wind  and 
the  Sapling.'  I  am  the  North  Wind,  and  you, 
Miss  Dodge,  are  the  Sapling.  You  are  delicious, 
my  dear." 

"Well,  you're  some  breeze,  I'll  say,"  says  I, 
prying  myself  loose  and  straightening  my  hat. 

I  think  it  must  have  been  that  little  incident 
which  got  Inez  green  in  the  eye  again,  for  as  we 
starts  up  the  avenue  once  more  she  asks,  "Who 
was  that  black-eyed  feller  you  carried  on  so 
with?" 

160 


INEZ  HANGS  UP  A  RECORD 

"Oh,  some  Owski  or  other,"  says  I.  "Fresh 
as  paint,  eh?" 

Inez  nods.  "He  look  at  you  like  he'd  eat  you 
up,"  says  she.  "Huh!  Nothing  like  that  hap- 
pens to  me,  ever." 

"Listen  to  that!"  says  I.  "Say,  Inez,  he'd 
have  to  be  some  husk  who  could  bounce  you 
around  that  way." 

"I  know,"  says  Inez.  "Nobody  likes  big  girls. 
What's  the  use?" 

We  hadn't  walked  more  than  five  blocks  fur- 
ther before  she  began  to  complain  that  her  feet 
hurt,  so  to  soothe  her  I  hailed  a  taxi.  It  hap- 
pened to  be  one  of  these  near-limousines  from  a 
hotel  stand,  the  kind  that  soak  you  a  double  rate 
on  the  clock,  but  with  Inez's  arches  sagging  I 
couldn't  wait  for  any  bargains  to  come  along. 

That's  how  we  were  riding  in  such  state  when 
we  got  held  up  by  the  cross-town  traffic  at  Thir- 
ty-fourth Street.  I  expect  I  was  just  gazing 
moony  up  Fifth  Avenue,  wondering  where  all 
the  people  came  from  who  filled  that  endless 
procession  of  cars  and  taxis,  when  I  woke  up  to 
the  fact  that  Inez  was  nudging  me  with  her 
elbow. 

"Eh?"  says  I,  turning. 

"Nice  feller,  hey?"  she  whispers. 

And  I  saw  that  in  the  open  touring  car  on  her 
161 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

left,  which  had  pulled  up  not  more  than  a  foot 
away,  was  a  collection  of  foreign-looking  men 
who  seemed  to  be  making  a  sight-seeing  tour. 
Most  of  them  had  on  frock  coats  and  shiny  silk 
hats  and  somehow  they  wore  'em  just  as  if  they 
were  making  their  first  appearance  in  such  cos- 
tumes. They  were  all  dark-skinned,  undersized 
birds,  with  glossy  black  hair  and  smooth  faces. 

But  the  one  nearest  Inez  was  dressed  different. 
He  was  got  up  real  sporty  in  a  gray  tweed  suit 
with  a  soft  hat  to  match.  He  was  the  youngest 
of  the  lot,  too,  somewhere  in  the  twenties,  I 
should  say,  although  it's  hard  to  judge.  Any- 
way his  bright  brown  eyes  seemed  to  be  glued 
on  Inez  and  his  full  red  lips  were  half  open  in 
a  childish  smile.  He  had  even  put  one  of  his 
little,  well-gloved  hands  on  the  door  of  the  car, 
as  if  he  had  half  a  mind  to  hop  out. 

"He — he  look  at  me  funny,  hey?"  asks  Inez 
in  my  ear,  and  swings  back  toward  him. 

"Another  minute  and  he'll  be  in  your  lap," 
says  I.  "Say,  when  did  you  throw  the  net  over 
that?" 

"I  dunno,"  says  Inez.  "He  just  come.  Who 
you  think  he  is?" 

"Sensible  question!"  says  I.  "How  should  I 
know?  Colored  up  like  a  brown  vase,  isn't  he? 
If  it  wasn't  for  his  straight  hair  and  his  John 

162 


INEZ  HANGS  UP  A  RECORD 

Drew  nose  I  should  suspect  he  had  more  or  less 
Pullman  porter  blood  in  him.  But  he  might  be 
anything,  from  a  Peruvian  to  a  Hindu.  Any- 
way, you  seem  to  have  made  a  big  hit  with  him 
and  he  doesn't  mind  letting  you  know  it,  either." 

"Yes-s-s  I"  says  Inez,  still  returning  the  stare. 

By  this  time  some  of  the  other  men  in  the  car 
had  grown  wise  to  this  little  exchange  of  goo-goo 
looks  and  they  acted  somewhat  disturbed  by  it. 
One  tried  to  point  out  the  windows  of  the  Wal- 
dorf dining  room  to  the  youngster,  but  he  didn't 
succeed  in  shifting  that  pleased  gaze. 

Just  about  then,  though,  the  white  light  flashed 
on  in  the  control  tower  and  the  dammed-up  traf- 
fic dashed  forward,  three  cars  abreast  on  either 
side  of  the  avenue,  our  driver  leading  by  a  nose. 
A  minute  later  and  another  taxi  had  crowded 
in  ahead  of  the  touring  car  and  this  little  by- 
play between  Inez  and  her  unknown  seemed  to  be 
wrecked. 

I  was  just  curious  enough,  to  twist  my  neck 
and  peek  through  the  back  window  and  I  could 
see  that  the  little  sport  in  gray  tweeds  was  not 
losing  without  a  struggle.  He  seemed  to  be 
having  a  hot  argument  with  the  other  three  and 
the  next  thing  I  knew  he  had  hopped  up  and  was 
talking  excited  to  the  chauffeur,  trying  to  make 
him  understand  something  or  other. 

163 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Hello  I"  says  I.  "It's  a  chase.  Inez,  you're 
being  trailed." 

Doesn't  appear  to  worry  her  a  bit.  In  fact, 
she  acts  rather  pleased. 

"Kinda  cute,  that  one,  hey?"  she  remarks, 
ducking  her  chin  coy. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  says  I,  "but  I  must 
say,  Inez,  I'm  a  little  surprised  at  you.  Why, 
you  don't  know  this  young  sport  from  Adam." 

"You  should  talk!"  says  Inez.  "Gettin' 
hugged  by  that  Russian  I" 

"But  that  was  different,"  I  protests.  "We'd 
been  introduced  and  all.  And  anyway,  I  didn't 
start  vamping  him  at  first  sight.  Yet  here  you 
go  and " 

"See !"  breaks  in  Inez.     "He's  comin'  yet." 

"Absolutely,"  says  I,  taking  another  glance 
behind.  "I  suppose  you'd  throw  him  a  rope  if 
you  had  one.  Say,  where  do  you  figure  this  is 
going  to  finish?  I'm  no  prune-faced  old  maid, 
Inez,  but  there  are  limits,  you  know." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.  "I  can't  help  if  a  feller 
like  me,  can  I  ?" 

And  with  Inez  in  that  mood  what  was  the 
sense  wasting  breath?  Besides,  we  were  nearly 
home  and  when  the  taxi  swung  into  our  court 
driveway  the  other  chauffeur  would  hardly  have 
nerve  enough  to  crash  in,  too.  He  did,  though. 

164 


Yes,  sir,  right  on  our  heels.  But  by  a  stroke  of 
luck  there  was  Uncle  Nets,  swapping  his  usual 
daily  chat  with  the  imposing  looking  carriage 
man.  It  was  a  relief  to  see  him.  Not  that  I 
didn't  feel  equal  to  facing  this  persistent  young 
sport  and  telling  him  exactly  where  he  got  off, 
but  it's  so  much  easier  to  shift  that  sort  of  thing 
to  a  man,  even  if  he  is  only  a  dried-up  little  old 
Swede  who  couldn't  scare  anybody. 

"Here,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  I.  "Block  off  that 
brunette  Romeo  in  the  gray  suit.  Find  out  who 
he  is  and  what  he  wants,  or  else  get  your  friend 
Mike  to  give  him  the  quick  shunt,  while  I  hustle 
Inez  upstairs  and  lock  her  in  her  room." 

"Hey?  Wha-a-at?"  says  Uncle  Nels,  gawp- 
ing at  me  dazed. 

I  didn't  want  to  explain  the  case  but  pushed 
Inez  into  the  elevator  and  soon  had  her  safe  in 
the  apartment. 

"Well,  that's  that !"  says  I.  "And  listen  here, 
Inez,  if  your  Uncle  Nels  shows  up  with  a  dagger 
sticking  out  of  his  back  or  otherwise  mussed  it'll 
be  all  your  fault.  Giving  the  come-hither  to  any 
stray  foreigner  you  happen  to  pick  up!  I'm 
shocked!" 

But  Inez  doesn't  care  a  rap.  "I'm  gonna 
make  Uncle  Nels  tell  me  what  he  say,  that  one," 
she  announces. 

12  165 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

And  five  minutes  later,  when  Uncle  Nels  does 
shuffle  in,  she  tries.  She  didn't  get  much  out  of 
him,  though.  Neither  did  I  when  I  took  a  hand. 

"Such  foolishness!"  says  he.  "How  can  I 
say  what  he  talk  about,  all  that  outlandish  lingo? 
Nor  Mike  either.  He  think  maybe  it's  Dago 
language,  Mike.  Anyway,  it  don't  mean  any- 
thing to  us.  The  young  feller,  though,  he  talk 
a  lot,  until  the  old  ones  pull  him  back  in  the  car. 
Then  they  all  go  off." 

"You  don't  mean  you  didn't  even  find  out  who 
he  was?"  I  asks. 

"Oh,  sure!"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "He  gimme  a 
card.  Now  what  did  I " 

"Now  we're  getting  somewhere,"  says  I, 
while  Uncle  Nels  is  rummaging  through  his  pock- 
ets. "Gave  you  his  card,  did  he?  And  did  you 
give  him  yours?" 

Uncle  Nels  nods.  "Why  not?"  says  he. 
"They  don't  cost  much.  Now  what  I  do  with — 
Oh!  Here's  his  card.  Funny  lookin'." 

"Allow  me,"  says  I,  picking  it  out  of  his  fin- 
gers. "Well,  I  should  say  it  was  a  bit  odd. 
Some  names  for  a  youth  of  that  size — five,  six, 
seven — and  hardly  a  one  I  could  pronounce 
without — Say,  folks !  I've  got  the  answer.  Who 
do  you  guess  Inez  has  picked  out  to  get  up  a 
flirtation  with?" 

166 


INEZ  HANGS  UP  A  RECORD 

"Who?"  demands  Inez  eager. 

"Only  his  royal  and  Oriental  magnificence, 
the  Ginkwah  of  Kassan,"  says  I. 

"Hey?"  says  Inez,  staring  over  my  shoulder 
at  the  card.  "Who's  he?" 

"Proving  what  I've  so  often  told  you,  Inez," 
says  I,  "that  you  really  should  read  a  newspaper 
now  and  then.  Why,  they've  been  full  of  the 
Ginkwah's  doings  for  the  last  two  days — how 
many  rooms  he  has  at  the  Plutoria,  what  he  has 
sent  up  for  breakfast,  and  how  he  balked  when 
they  tried  to  get  him  to  ride  in  the  subway.  The 
reporters  have  followed  him  everywhere,  from 
Grant's  Tomb  to  the  Winter  Garden,  but  so  far 
he  hasn't  had  a  word  to  say  to  them.  Sensible 
guy,  I'll  say." 

"He — he's  big  man,  eh?"  asks  Inez. 

"In  Kassan  he  is,  wherever  that  may  be,"  says 
I.  "He's  the  Junior  Grand  Kleagle,  I  take  it; 
sort  of  a  crown  prince,  you  know,  although  Gink- 
wah seems  to  be  his  proper  title.  And  I  gather 
that  he's  been  sent  out  by  his  royal  daddy  to 
make  the  grand  tour.  Just  come  from  doing 
Japan  and  rolled  in  from  'Frisco  only  the  other 
day.  He's  being  chaperoned  by  the  Grand 
Chamberlain  and  a  whole  string  of  secretaries 
and  so  on.  Must  have  been  some  of  'em  in  that 
car.  According  to  accounts  the  Ginkwah  is  all 

167 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

kinds  of  a  plute,  and  by  the  way  he's  said  to 
have  tried  to  view  all  the  bright  spots  along  the 
way  he  must  be  more  or  less  of  a  regular  fellow. 
Anyway,  he's  no  common  gink.  He's  the  Gink- 
wah  of  Kassan.  That's  who  you  pick  out  casually 
to  vamp  on  Fifth  Avenue,  Inez." 

At  which  Inez  tosses  her  head.  "I  no  care," 
says  she.  "I  think  I  like  him.  He — he's  nice 
feller." 

"Sure !"  chimes  in  Uncle  Nels.  "He  gimme  a 
cigar.  See?" 

"Good  night!"  says  I.  "Say,  you  two  are  a 
pair.  How  far  do  you  think  you're  going  to  get, 
Inez,  with  visiting  royalty?  You  don't  kid  your- 
self he's  coming  around  and  take  you  to  the 
movies  and  try  to  hold  hands  with  you,  do  you  ? 
A  crown  prince !  Say,  how  do  you  get  that  way?" 

Of  course,  I  figured  that  this  little  flash-in-the- 
pan  romance  of  Inez's  was  all  over.  Something 
about  her  had  caught  his  fancy  and  he'd  rushed 
after  her.  Maybe  that  was  a  habit  of  his.  But 
probably  he  was  a  quick  forgetter,  and  if  he 
wasn't,  the  Grand  Chamberlain  would  talk  some 
sense  into  his  head  as  soon  as  he  had  a  good 
chance.  So  I  kidded  Inez  all  through  dinner  and 
went  to  the  theater  without  being  at  all  uneasy. 

Yet  when  I  drifts  back  to  the  apartment  again 
about  eleven-forty-five,  who  do  you  think  I  find 

168 


INEZ  HANGS  UP  A  RECORD 

in  the  living  room  beaming  enthusiastic  at  Uncle 
Nels  and  Inez?  Uh-huh!  The  Ginkwah.  He 
hasn't  come  alone.  With  him  is  a  dapper 
dressed,  dark-eyed  party  who,  as  I  came  in, 
seemed  to  be  doing  his  best  to  make  Uncle  Nels 
understand  some  of  the  worst  hashed  up  English 
I  ever  heard.  An  interpreter,  evidently,  but  by 
no  means  a  certified  one. 

Even  when  he  was  wide  awake,  though,  I 
doubt  if  Uncle  Nels  could  have  guessed  what  was 
being  fed  to  him,  but  having  been  routed  out  of 
bed  at  11.30  P.M.,  as  I  find  is  the  case,  he  stands 
there  shivering  in  his  bath  robe  and  blinking 
stupid.  I  could  get  the  rest  of  the  plot  without 
asking  any  questions.  The  Ginkwah  has  broken 
loose  from  the  Grand  Chamberlain  and  other 
official  chaperons  and  has  come  to  put  his  propo- 
sition. 

"Well,  well!"  says  I.  "What  a  cozy  little 
party?  What's  it  all  about?" 

Inez  ducks  her  chin  kittenish  and  indulges  in 
that  sappy  smile  of  hers.  "He  come  back," 
says  she. 

"So  I  notice,"  says  I.    "But  what's  the  idea?" 

"That  one,"  says  Inez,  nodding  at  the  inter- 
preter, "he  say  the  Ginkwah  wanna  talk  to  Uncle 
Nels,  and — and  he  bring  me  present.  Look!" 

I  looked  and  gasped.  It  was  some  trinket — 
169 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

a  girdle  made  of  openwork  gold  links  set  with 
green  stones — emeralds,  I  should  say — and  if  it 
was  worth  anything  at  all  it  must  have  b^en 
worth  a  fortune. 

"Hand  that  here,"  says  I.  "Now,  mister, 
what  does  all  this  lead  up  to?  What's  the  Gink- 
wah's  little  plan,  if  any?" 

The  interpreter  was  right  there  with  the  come- 
back. "It  is  as  I  say,"  he  announces,  patting 
himself  on  the  chest.  "His  Royal  Highness 
have  viewed  the  so  lovely  lady  and  he  is  much 
charmed  in  his  heart,  quite  much  charmed.  Yes. 
So  he  would  speak  with  her — with  him,  there." 

"I  get  you,  so  far,"  says  I.  "Well,  what  does 
he  want  to  tell  Uncle  Nels  ?  That  he  wants  to 
marry  Miss  Inez?  Is  that  it — marry?" 

"Ah-h-h!  Marry!  That  is  the  word  I  for- 
get," says  he. 

"Some  do,"  says  I.  "Glad  I  was  able  to  re- 
mind you  of  it.  Well,  that's  a  bit  sudden  of  the 
young  man,  and  I  hope  he  knows  exactly  what 
he's  doing.  They  don't  always  when  they  are  so 
much  charmed  in  the  heart,  as  you  put  it.  Now 
let's  get  this  straight  from  the  Ginkwah  himself. 
You  bat  it  up  to  him.  Ask  him  if  he's  in  dead 
earnest  about  wanting  to  marry  Inez." 

They  must  speak  a  kind  of  shorthand  in  Kas- 
san  for  the  interpreter  shoots  over  only  a  few 

170 


INEZ  HANGS  UP  A  RECORD 

syllables  to  the  Ginkwah,  who  immediately  un- 
reefs  a  broad  smile  and  nods  violently. 

"It  is  so,  yes,"  announces  the  interpreter. 
"His  Royal  Highest  say  'he  would  have  her  for 
wife — for  his  head  wife." 

"Eh?"  says  I,  straining  my  ears.  "Once  more 
with  that  last." 

"For  his  chief  wife  of  all,"  says  he,  beaming 
first  at  me  and  then  at  the  Ginkwah. 

And  as  soon  as  I  got  my  breath  I  caught  him 
by  the  coat  sleeve.  "You  mean,"  says  I,  "that 
she  would  rank  A-i — above  all — all  the  others?" 

"True,"  says  he,  bowing  low. 

"Get  that,  Inez?"  says  I.  "You'd  head  the 
list.  But  just  one  thing  more,  Mister ;  how  many 
would  there  be — that  is,  when  he  got  his  full 
quota?" 

The  dapper  young  man  shrugs  his  shoulders 
careless.  "Who  should  tell?"  says  he.  "His 
Royal  Highness  has  much  riches.  He  can  pay 
for  many  wives,  as  many  as  he  wants.  But  he 
pay  most  for  her  which  should  be  first  wife.  So 
I  make  to  tell  to  her  Uncleness.  You  speak  and 
ask  how  much  he  want.  Yes?" 

But  as  Uncle  Nels  was  standing  there  with  his 
mouth  open,  and  as  Inez  had  turned  her  back 
and  was  sniffling  into  the  portieres,  it  was  all  left 
up  to  me.  I  hardly  knew  whether  I  wanted  to 

171 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

snicker  or  to  hit  this  foreigner  whipsnapper  over 
the  head  with  something  hard.  But  he  was  so 
frank  and  friendly  about  it,  and  the  Ginkwah 
did  look  so  boyish  and  chummy  standing  there 
trying  to  dope  out  how  the  affair  was  progress- 
ing, that  I  didn't  have  the  heart  even  to  be 
rough. 

"Listen,  old  son,"  says  I.  "You  lead  the  Gink- 
wah out  and  explain  to  him  that  he's  made  the 
prize  break  of  his  young  career.  Go  have  him 
look  up  the  marriage  customs  of  the  (J.  S.  A.  in 
some  thick  book.  He'll  find  that  our  young  men 
don't  start  in  at  twenty-one  to  make  a  collection 
of  wives,  and  that  it  isn't  the  proper  thing  to 
come  right  out  and  offer  to  buy  'em,  on  the  hoof 
or  otherwise.  Besides,  if  he  did  get  Inez  over 
to  Kassan,  and  she  should  find  a  No.  2  wife 
being  unloaded  at  the  front  door  she  wouldn't 
do  a  thing  but  treat  her  messy  and  probably  she'd 
wreck  the  palace  before  she  got  through.  No, 
Mister,  Inez  isn't  in  the  market  for  wife  shop- 
pers, and  by  the  red  tint  spreading  up  the  back 
of  her  neck  I  should  guess  that  it  would  be  much 
safer  for  you  and  His  Highest  to  make  a  quick 
exit.  This  way  out.  Yes,  that  door.  And  here  I 
Better  take  this  partial  payment  trinket  along 
with  you." 

He  wasn't  much  of  an  interpreter,  but  there 
172 


r » n  i 

r?l 


AND    AS    SOON    AS   I    GOT    MY    BREATH    I    CAUGHT    HIM    BY    THE    COAT    SLEEVE. 

"YOU   MEAN/'   SAYS  I,  "THAT   SHE  WOULD  RANK   A-I    ABOVE   ALL  THE 

OTHERS?" 


INEZ  HANGS  UP  A  RECORD 

were  some  words  in  the  English  language  that 
he  seemed  quite  familiar  with.  Anyway,  he  took 
the  Ginkwah  by  the  arm  and  led  him  out 
promptly,  while  I  tried  to  sooth  Inez  from  drift- 
ing into  the  only  real  crying  fit  I  ever  knew  her 
to  indulge  in.  Whether  it  was  because  she  was 
mad  or  sorry  I  couldn't  make  out. 

And  yet  when  this  package  came  by  messenger 
next  afternoon  I  couldn't  insist  that  she  send  it 
back.  It  was  a  ruby  pendant  hung  on  a  curious 
chain  of  woven  gold  thread.  With  it  was  the 
card  of  the  Ginkwah  of  Kassan,  and  something 
scribbled  on  the  back — a  word  or  so  just  as  easy 
to  read  as  if  a  cockroach  had  crawled  through 
the  ink  and  then  left  his  footprints. 

"Probably,"  I  suggests,  "it  means  that  if  you 
ever  change  your  mind  you'll  find  him  ready  to 
start  a  new  series  with  you  as  No.  I." 

"Huhl"  says  Inez.  "Anyway,  he  didn't  think 
I'm  too  fat.  He  was  nice  feller,  too." 

So,  hearing  her  list  him  in  the  past  tense,  I 
knew  it  was  finished.  Also  I'm  free  to  admit 
that  when  it  comes  to  romance,  Inez  has  got  it 
all  over  me.  Just  think !  She  might  have  been 
the  Ginkwahess  of  Kassan, 


Chapter  XI 
Guessing  On  Uncle  Nels 

YOU  might  think  it  was  pretty  soft  for  us, 
living  here  in  this  swell  apartment  house, 
with  real  palms  in  the  foyer  and  a  doorman 
dressed  like  a  real  admiral,  and  Inez's  rich  uncle 
to  sign  checks  for  everything.  Course,  I  insist 
on  paying  the  same  board  I  did  at  Miss  Wellby's, 
but  that's  a  good  deal  of  a  fancy  gesture.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  what  I  turn  in  doesn't  help  much 
to  scale  down  the  grand  monthly  total,  whatever 
it  is.  But  Uncle  Nels  seems  satisfied.  He  says 
it's  worth  it  just  to  have  us  with  him,  and  once 
he  hinted  that  I  had  more'n  saved  all  we  both 
cost  him  by  keeping  him  out  of  the  hands  of  slick 
grafters.  I'll  admit  he's  right,  too.  I  guess  I've 
told  you  of  two  or  three  cases  where  he'd  have 
been  nicked  good  and  plenty  if  Trilby  May 
Dodge  hadn't  crashed  in  just  at  the  right  mo- 
ment to  show  up  a  crooked  game.  So  I  should 
worry.  Besides,  he  must  have  an  income  that 
runs  into  husky  figures. 

But,  as  I  try  to  make  Inez  understand,  part 
174 


GUESSING  ON  UNCLE  NELS 

of  our  bargain,  besides  seeing  that  Uncle  Nels 
is  more  or  less  entertained,  is  to  keep  track  of 
him  and  see  that  he  doesn't  get  into  mischief. 
And  I'll  say  that's  no  cinch. 

You  wouldn't  mistrust,  though,  to  look  at  this 
dried-up,  little  old  shrimp  with  the  skim-milk 
blue  eyes  and  the  slumped  shoulders,  that  he 
would  ever  start  anything  on  his  own  hook. 
Although  we've  succeeded  in  getting  him  to  wear 
fairly  decent  clothes,  there's  no  disguising  the 
fact  that  he's  a  hick  dressed  up.  You  can  tell 
that  just  by  his  shuffling,  aimless  walk,  and  he 
will  continue  to  go  gawping  about  as  if  he'd  just 
drifted  in  from  the  rutabaga  fields.  So,  of 
course,  he's  an  easy  mark.  He  might  just  as 
well  wear  a  sign. 

It  isn't  so  easy,  either,  to  find  things  that  will 
interest  him.  When  we  discovered  him  here, 
you  remember,  he  had  a  fad  for  sailing  mechan- 
ical toy  boats  in  three  bathtubs  he'd  hooked  up 
in  the  living  room.  But  he  soon  got  tired  of 
that  as  an  indoor  sport  and  we  induced  him  to 
have  the  tubs  taken  out.  For  awhile,  there,  too, 
Inez  thought  she'd  made  a  movie  fan  out  of  him, 
but  somehow — I  think  it  was  having  to  see  Bill 
Hart  three  times  in  one  week — he  kind  of  soured 
on  the  movies,  and  Inez  had  to  fall  back  on 
Annette,  our  near-French  maid,  as  a  matinee 

175 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

escort.  Uncle  Nels  seemed  to  prefer  wandering 
around  through  the  streets  and  the  park  by 
himself. 

If  he  liked  to  read,  or  to  play  solitaire,  or 
join  in  a  two-handed  game  of  dominoes  or  par- 
cheesi,  it  would  be  different.  But  about  all  the 
reading  Uncle  Nels  does  is  in  a  Swedish  paper 
that  comes  once  a  week  by  mail,  and  he's  never 
learned  to  play  any  kind  of  games  at  all.  He's 
led  too  busy  a  life  for  that.  He  isn't  much  of  a 
sitter,  either.  Restless  old  boy.  And  when  he 
does  camp  down  quiet  he  seems  to  put  himself 
into  a  sort  of  coma,  staring  at  nothing  at  all, 
and,  so  far  as  I  can  discover,  not  even  thinking. 

So  he's  more  or  less  of  a  puzzle.  As  for  Inez, 
she's  no  help  at  all.  She  will  sit  directly  opposite 
him  for  an  hour  at  a  time  without  opening  her 
head  and  perfectly  contented  to  yank  away  on 
her  gum.  She's  one  of  the  non-thinkers,  too. 
She  can  be  just  as  lively  and  animated  as  a  cold 
boiled  potato.  Anything  in  the  world  might  be 
going  on — big  strikes,  more  wars  threatened, 
kings  and  presidents  blown  to  bits  by  bombs — 
but  if  nothing  joggled  her  elbow  she'd  take  no 
notice. 

That's  why  I'm  so  desperate,  at  times,  to  find 
things  for  'em  to  do.  One  of  my  experiments 
was  taking  them  to  a  professional  matinee.  I 

176 


GUESSING  ON  UNCLE  NELS 

knew  it  was  going  to  be  kind  of  a  weird  play 
and  probably  something  they  wouldn't  be  crazy 
over,  but  Ames  Hunt  had  given  me  these 
four  free  tickets  and  I  hated  to  waste  'em. 
Besides,  Barry  Platt  had  offered  to  take  us 
down  in  his  car. 

The  piece  was  weird,  all  right.  No  wonder 
the  producer  wanted  to  open  in  the  afternoon 
with  a  lot  of  his  friends  present  and  the  house 
well  papered.  My  guess  is  that  it  will  run  about 
a  week  before  it  joins  the  other  dramatic  dis- 
cards of  the  season.  Inez  yawned  through  the 
whole  four  acts  and  Uncle  Nels  hypnotized  him- 
self into  a  two-hour  nap  so  he  didn't  suffer  much. 
I  couldn't  blame  either  of  them. 

It  was  only  after  we  had  walked  a  block  and 
a  half,  to  where  Barry  had  parked  his  car,  that 
Uncle  Nels  offered  any  remark. 

"Your  automobeel  don't  get  §tole,  eh?"  he 
suggests. 

"Not  this  time,"  says  Barry.  "You  see, 
there's  a  fellow  on  this  block  who's  supposed  to 
watch  your  car  for  you.  Yes,  he's  right  on  the 
job.  Anyway,  he's  coming  to  collect  his  tip." 

Uncle  Nels  watches  as  this  rough-looking  per- 
son in  the  faded  ulster  slouches  up  with  his  hand 
out.  "How  much  you  have  to  give  him?"  he 
asks. 

177 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Oh,  he'll  take  anything  from  a  quarter  to  a 
half,"  says  Barry. 

That  seems  to  impress  Uncle  Nels  more  than 
anything  he'd  seen  on  the  stage.  "Huhl"  he  re- 
marks. "Lotta  cars  on  this  block,  hey?" 

"Fifty  or  more,"  says  Barry.  "Maybe  a  hun- 
dred. He  doesn't  get  'em  all,  though.  Some 
don't  give  up,  some  do.  It's  a  little  private 
graft,  of  course." 

"Huh!"  says  Uncle  Nels,  and  lapses  into  his 
usual  silent  mood. 

"He  does  get  so  excited  over  the  drama, 
doesn't  he?"  I  whispers  to  Barry. 

It  must  have  been  only  a  few  days  after  this 
that  I  began  to  get  puzzled  about  Uncle  Nels. 
He  took  to  sliding  out  promptly  after  lunch 
every  day,  and  instead  of  dolling  up  in  any  of 
his  new  clothes  he  would  dig  out  his  oldest  suit. 
On  cold  days,  too,  he  would  wrap  himself  in  an 
old  plaid  mackinaw  coat,  such  as  he  used  to  wear 
in  the  woods,  and  pull  a  faded  old  woolen  cap 
down  over  his  ears. 

"What's  the  big  notion?"  I  asked  him  once. 
"Going  out  to  drive  a  truck,  or  something  like 
that?" 

"Truck!"  says  he.    "How  foolish!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  new  overcoat?" 
I  demands. 

178 


GUESSING  ON  UNCLE  NELS 

"Well,  it  ain't  Sunday,  is  it?"  says  he,  as  he 
shuffles  through  the  door. 

I  noticed,  too,  that  he  stayed  out  all  the  after- 
noon, no  matter  what  the  weather,  and  that  when 
he'd  show  up  around  six  o'clock  his  Baldwin- 
apple  cheeks  would  be  redder  than  ever,  his  old 
eyes  bright  and  twinkly,  and  his  appetite  more 
like  a  hired  man's  than  like  a  retired  plute's. 
But  all  the  response  I  could  get  out  of  him  as 
to  where  he'd  been  or  what  he'd  been  doing  was 
vague  and  sketchy.  In  fact,  whenever  I  opened 
the  subject  it  seemed  as  if  Uncle  Nels  was  just 
stalling  me  off. 

"Now  what  do  you  guess  that  old  boy  is  up 
to?"  I  asks  Inez. 

"Him?"  says  she.  "I  dunno.  He  walk 
around,  don't  he?" 

"Must  be  exciting  sport,  tramping  the  streets, 
especially  in  the  rain,"  I  suggests.  "Yesterday 
when  he  came  in  he  was  dripping  wet." 

''He's  tough,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  Inez.  "Funny 
old  man,  too." 

I  couldn't  deny  either  proposition.  So  far  as 
his  health  went,  he's  about  as  delicate  as  a  pine 
knot.  I  never  knew  him  to  have  anything  the 
matter  with  him,  riot  even  a  cold.  And  he  cer- 
tainly could  indulge  in  some  odd  habits.  Still,  I 
was  more  or  less  curious  about  these  afternoon 

179 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

disappearances  and  his  reluctance  to  talk  over 
his  daily  doings. 

And  the  next  thing  I  knew  Inez  reports  that 
he's  begun  to  stay  out  evenings.  In  fact,  it  was 
only  a  few  nights  later  that  I  came  home  from  the 
theater  to  find  Uncle  Nels  just  letting  himself 
into  the  apartment.  He  has  on  the  same  back- 
woods outfit  that  he'd  been  wearing  afternoons. 

"Aren't  you  keeping  rather  late  hours,  Uncle 
Nels?"  says  I. 

"I  get  tired  going  to  bed  so  soon,"  says  he. 
"Wake  up  too  early." 

"That's  fairly  plausible,"  says  I.  "But  I  hope 
you  haven't  been  promenading  Fifth  Avenue  in 
that  costume." 

"Huh !"  says  he.  "Can't  I  wear  what  I  like  ? 
I  ain't  all  time  asking  where  you  girls  go  or  what 
you  put  on." 

He's  generally  such  a  mild  old  bird,  but  be- 
lieve me  he  can  get  up  on  his  ear  once  in  a  while, 
and  I  saw  that  this  was  once  when  he  needed  to 
be  handled  gentle.  Which  I  proceeded  to  do. 

"Far  be  it  from  me,"  says  I,  "to  tell  you  how 
to  amuse  yourself.  If  you  want  to  see  how  New 
York  behaves  itself  up  to  midnight  and  whether 
or  not  prohibition  prohibits,  that's  up  to  you.  I 
was  only  wondering  what  you  found  so  inter- 
esting?" 

1 80 


GUESSING  ON  UNCLE  NELS 

He  squints  his  eyes  cagey  and  nods.  "Well," 
says  he,  "it  don't  do  no  harm,  Trilby  May — 
wondering.  Me,  I  gonna  go  to  bed." 

And  I  was  just  as  well  informed  as  if  I'd  been 
interviewing  a  mummy  in  a  museum.  What 
could  an  old  boy  like  that  find  to  do  every  night? 
Must  be  some  outdoor  sport  or  else  he  wouldn't 
have  to  be  dressed  so  warm.  Why,  he  looked 
like  a  night  watchman  guarding  some  new  build- 
ing. Could  he  have  found  some  old  crony  with 
a  job  like  that  and  was  he  spending  his  evenings 
chatting  around  a  bucket  bonfire?  Or  did  he 
have  some  reason  for  trailing  around  in  disguise? 
After  a  few  more  futile  stabs  like  that  I  gave 
it  up.  But  I  didn't  quit  wondering.  The  fem- 
inine mind  doesn't,  they  say. 

Of  course,  I  talked  it  over  with  Barry  Platt. 
Usually  he  has  some  bright  ideas  on  almost  any 
subject,  but  he  had  nothing  sensible  to  offer  on 
this  one.  "Oh,  maybe  he's  turned  Bolshevik, 
and  is  attending  meetings  on  the  East  Side  some- 
where," he  suggests.  "Or  perhaps  he's  been 
taken  into  a  Kelley  pool  crowd,  or  has  run  across 
some  old  side-kick  who's  pilot  of  a  ferry-boat. 
Why  worry  if  it  doesn't  seem  to  do  him  any 
harm?" 

"I  wouldn't,  Barry,"  says  I,  "if  there  was  any 
way  of  taking  out  insurance  on  a  rich  uncle's  bank 
13  181 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

account.  There  should  be,  you  know.  How  are 
we  to  tell  when  he's  going  to  get  reckless  with 
his  check  book,  wandering  around  that  way? 
Besides,  I'd  just  like  to  know  how  he  passes  the 
time." 

Yet  it  was  Barry,  after  all,  who  brought  in  the 
first  clue  only  a  day  or  so  later.  "Say,  you  re- 
member the  chap  who  has  worked  up  a  street 
parking  graft  down  in  the  theater  district?"  he 
asks.  "The  one  I  tipped  the  day  we  all  went  to 
that  professional  matinee?  Well,  who  do  you 
think  I  saw  him  chatting  chummy  with  this 
afternoon?" 

"The  Mayor?"  says  I. 

"Uncle  Nels,"  says  he.  "He  was  so  busy  he 
didn't  notice  me  as  I  passed  by." 

"Oh  ho!"  says  I.  "Thanks,  Barry.  I  think 
that  gives  me  a  hunch." 

I  didn't  lose  any  time  in  following  it,  either. 
I  persuades  Barry  to  drive  me  down  to  that 
block  the  next  afternoon  about  two-fifteen.  And 
sure  enough,  who  should  show  up  with  an  offer 
to  watch  the  car  but  dear  old  Uncle  Nels.  He 
was  more  or  less  fussed,  too,  when  he  found 
who  was  in  the  machine. 

"How  enterprising  of  you,  Uncle  Nels  I"  says 
I.  "So  this  is  your  new  job,  eh?" 

"Well,  why  not?"  he  mumbles. 
182 


GUESSING  ON  UNCLE  NELS 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you  need  the  money,"  says  I. 
"But  how  are  you  working  it?  Running  an  op- 
position, or  have  you  gone  into  partnership  with 
the  other  pirate?" 

"Say,  you  wanna  know  too  much,  you,"  says 
he,  and  shuffles  off  active  to  hold  up  a  coupe 
that's  just  driven  up  with  an  owner-driver. 

But  it  looked  like  I'd  solved  the  mystery.  At 
least,  we  knew  what  Uncle  Nels  was  doing  after- 
noons and  evenings.  No  great  harm  in  it,  of 
course,  but  it  did  seem  rather  absurd  for  an  old 
boy  with  as  much  money  as  he  has  to  be  exposing 
himself  that  way  just  for  the  sake  of  a  few  dol- 
lars that  he  surely  didn't  need. 

"Must  be  gettin'  foolish  in  the  head,"  is  all 
the  comment  Inez  makes  when  she  hears. 

I  agreed  with  her.  And  for  awhile  we  tried  to 
josh  him  into  quitting. 

"Next  thing  we  know,"  says  I,  "you'll  be  out 
with  a  wheezy  accordion  squatting  in  some  door- 
way with  a  tin  cup  in  your  lap." 

"Maybe,"  says  he.  "You  would  drop  in  some 
pennies,  hey?" 

We  tried  shaming  him  out  of  it,  too.  "Sup- 
pose," says  Inez,  "somebody  asks  me  what  my 
uncle  do?  What  should  I  say?" 

"You  tell  'em,"  says  Uncle  Nels,  "that  he 
does  what  he  likes." 

183 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"But  it's  so  absurd,"  says  I,  "for  you  to  be 
knocking  around  the  streets  with  your  hand  out 
for  a  few  half  dollars." 

"Yes?"  says  he.  "But  I'm  only  a  foolish  old 
man,  ain't  I?  Well?" 

"You've  said  it,"  says  I.  "And  I  thought  you 
had  better  sense." 

Even  at  that  I  couldn't  figure  out  why  he 
stuck  to  it,  unless  it  was  because  we'd  stirred  up 
that  stubborn  streak  in  his  disposition.  Any- 
way, we  had  to  let  the  thing  ride,  although  Inez 
was  beginning  to  take  the  situation  hard. 

"We  think  we're  livin'  swell  and  all,"  says 
she,  "and  here  Uncle  Nels  has  to  act  like  that. 
Suppose  somebody  found  out?" 

"Don't  make  me  shudder,  Inez,"  says  I. 
"Why,  our  social  position  would  be  utterly 
ruined.  That  is,  the  doorman  might  stop  nod- 
ding cordial  to  us." 

Next  we  noticed  that  Uncle  Ncls  was  doing  a 
lot  of  figuring  in  a  cheap  paper-bound  account- 
book  that  he'd  haul  out  of  his  pocket  at  odd 
times.  He  seemed  to  get  a  lot  of  satisfaction 
going  over  items  on  various  pages  and  adding 
up  columns.  You  could  tell  that  by  the  pleased 
flicker  in  his  eyes. 

"Have  a  good  collection  last  night?"  I  asked 
him  once. 

,      184 


"SAY,    YOU   WANNA    KNOW  TOO   MUCH,   YOU,"   SAYS   HE,   AND   SHUFFLES   OFF 

ACTIVE   TO   HOLD    UP   A   COUPE    THAT'S   DRIVEN    UP   WITH    AN 

OWNER   DRIVER 


GUESSING  ON  UNCLE  NELS 

"I  don't  complain,"  was  all  the  answer  I  got 
out  of  him. 

"If  you  save  it  all  up,"  says  I,  "perhaps  you'll 
be  able  to  buy  a  new  overcoat  by  spring." 

"If  I  can't  I  might  borrow  the  difference  from 
you;  hey,  Trilby  May?"  he  comes  back  at  me. 

Then  the  last  Sunday  afternoon,  while  Uncle 
Nels  was  out  for  his  afternoon  walk,  Annette 
comes  back  from  tidying  up  his  room  and  ex- 
hibits some  discoveries  she's  made.  One  is  a 
blue  cloth  cap,  something  like  a  conductor's, 
with  more  or  less  gold  braid  on  it  and  a  nickeled 
badge  pinned  on  the  front. 

"Look!"  says  she.  "Uncle  Nels  joined  the 
band,  eh?" 

"Let's  see,"  says  I.  "What  are  those  letters 
on  the  badge  ?  A.  O.  P.  A.  Now  what  kind  of 
a  secret  order  is  that?  Where  was  this  cap, 
Annette?" 

"On  the  top  shelf  in  his  closet,"  says  she. 
"These,  too." 

The  other  exhibit  was  a  bunch  of  numbered 
tags,  with  detachable  coupons,  and  on  each  tag 
was  printed,  "Automobile  Owners'  Protective 
Association."  We  were  still  trying  to  guess 
what  it  all  meant  when  Uncle  Nels  drifted  in 
unexpected  and  found  the  articles  displayed  on 
the  living-room  table. 

185 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Huh!"  says  he.  "Somebody's  been  snoopin' 
around,  eh?" 

"Looks  that  way,  doesn't  it?"  says  I.  "And 
we're  more  curious  than  ever.  You  wear  the 
cap,  do  you?" 

He  nods. 

"And  you've  got  to  the  stage  where  you  give 
'em  real  checks  for  their  cars,  have  you?"  I 
guess  on. 

"It's  a  foolish  idea,  hey?"  he  asks. 

"No,  I  should  say  that  it  was  rather  bright," 
says  I.  "I  take  it  you  have  organized  the  busi- 
ness a  bit?" 

"Maybe,"  says  he. 

"Are  you  working  more  than  one  block  now?" 
I  asks. 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders  careless  and  digs  up 
his  old  notebook.  "By  to-morrow  it  will  be 
twenty-two  blocks,"  says  he. 

"Oh,  come !"  says  I.  "You  and  your  partner 
couldn't  possibly  cover  that  number  of  blocks." 

"Partner!"  says  he.  "That  old  bum  ain't  no 
partner  any  more.  I  buy  him  out  long  time  ago. 
He  works  for  me  now.  Lot  of  others,  too." 

"What  I"  says  I.  "You  mean  you've  developed 
a  little  side-street  graft  into  a  regular  enter- 
prise?" 

He  had.  In  about  every  block  where  the 
1 86 


GUESSING  ON  UNCLE  NELS 

police  regulations  allowed  parking  he  had  an 
assistant  wearing  a  uniform  cap,  and  when  you 
drove  up  you  were  hailed.  That  is,  almost 
anywhere  in  the  theatrical  district.  And  if  you 
wanted  to  be  sure  of  finding  your  car  again  when 
you  came  out  you  gave  up  half  a  dollar. 

"But  how  many  of  them  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"Most  all,"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "Some  think 
they  have  to,  on  account  of  the  badge  and  the 
cap.  Like  an  officer,  you  know.  I  thought  that 
out  first  thing.  But  some  wouldn't  give  money 
unless  they  had  something  to  show  for  it.  So 
I  gets  up  the  coupon  tags,  just  like  they  have  in 
big  garages.  Only  I  prints  the  price  on  it,  so 
they  know  they  ain't  gettin'  stuck.  I  start  with 
one  man,  Old  Pete.  Then  I  get  another,  and 
more  and  more.  First  off  I  give  'em  half,  but  so 
many  want  to  work  for  me  that  I  give  'em  three 
dollars  a  night,  and  if  they  don't  like  that  they 
get  the  chuck.  But  they  do.  Tips  is  why.  Folks 
who  drive  to  shows  in  cars  don't  care  how  they 
spend  money.  And  they  can  leave  robes  and 
coats.  My  men  watch  everything.  And  me,  I 
watch  them." 

"You  mean  you  go  around  and  check  up  each 
block?"  says  I. 

"You  bet!"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "They  don't 
hold  out  nothing  on  me.  And  I  have  'em  make 

187 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

the  drivers  park  their  cars  in  tight,  so  I  get  more 
to  a  block.  It  ain't  bad,  twenty-two  blocks." 

"I  should  say  not,  at  fifty  cents  a  throw,"  says 
I.  "Why,  if  you  had  only  one  hundred  cars  to 
a  block  that  would  be — great  guns! — over  a 
thousand  dollars  a  night,  less  a  hundred  or  so 
for  expenses." 

"Uh-huh  I"  says  he.    "It  counts  up." 

"Wowey!"  says  I,  staring  at  him.  "Do  you 
mean  to  say,  Uncle  Nels,  that  you  can  drift 
around  New  York  and  pick  up  a  cinch  like  that 
right  from  under  the  noses  of  all  these  grafters 
who  were  born  and  brought  up  here?  Say, 
you're  some  wizard." 

"Me?"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "No.  I'm  just  a 
foolish  old  man  who  came  from  Sweden  long  ago 
and  don't  know  many  Yankee  tricks.  Yes,  I 
did  make  a  little  in  lumber  business.  But  that 
was  luck,  they  say." 

"I'll  admit  I  always  thought  so,"  says  I.  "But 
I'm  beginning  to  suspect  some  of  it  was  due  to 
shrewd  moves.  Didn't  you  sell  standing  timber 
on  Indian  reservations?" 

"Lotta  lumberjacks  do  that,"  says  Uncle  Nels. 
"You  could  sell  anything  them  days  to  suckers 
from  the  East.  And  some  way  I  used  to  see  the 
suckers  first." 

"Yes,  I  can  imagine  you  did,"  says  I.  "Those 
188 


GUESSING  ON  UNCLE  NELS 

honest  blue  eyes  and  the  simple  look  in  'em  must 
have  been  quite  a  help,  too.  But  to  put  anything 
like  this  over  in  New  York — that's  what  I  call  a 
regular  stunt.  Using  the  public  streets  as  a 
storage  garage,  and  getting  away  with  it!  To 
the  tune  of  a  thousand  or  more  a  day,  too  I  Say, 
I  wonder  the  cops  don't  get  onto  your  scheme, 
or  that  the  Tammany  bunch  don't  find  out  what 
a  good  bet  they're  missing." 

Uncle  Nels  gives  another  hunch  to  his  shoul- 
ders. "They  have,"  says  he.  "Both  the  cops 
and  the  politicians.  I  kept  the  cops  squared  at 
first  with  little  presents.  Then  they  wanted 
more — twenty-five  dollars  a  week.  I  gave  it, 
but  said  I  was  a  poor  man.  They  could  figure 
up,  though.  Then  somebody  told  the  district 
leader.  He  was  around  to  see  me  yesterday. 
He  say  I  must  take  out  a  license  and  he  can  fix 
it  for  me  but  it  might  cost  a  lot.  I  guess  so." 

"So  the  parking  cinch  is  going  to  be  short 
lived,  eh?"  says  I. 

"Look  so,"  says  Uncle  Ncls.  "That's  why  I 
sell  out  today." 

"Eh?"  says  I. 

"To  a  Mr.  Morrie  Blum,"  says  he.  "Ticket 
speculator.  He's  been  figurin',  too.  Gets  up 
syndicate  to  take  over  business  from  me.  Lotta 
men  in  it — Mr.  Hirshfield,  Mr.  Goldstein,  Mr. 

189 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

Cohen.  Bright  fellers.  I  meet  'em  this  after- 
noon. They  had  the  cash.  No  checks,  I  tell 
'em.  Just  bills.  So  it  don't  take  long.  I  get 
the  money  in  one  hand  and  sign  paper  with  the 
other.  See?" 

He  displays  a  long  envelope  full  of  big  denom- 
ination bank  notes — the  biggest  I'd  ever  seen. 
Had  me  gasping. 

"How — how  many  thousand?"  I  asked. 

"Say,  you  wanna  know  a  lot,  don't  you?"  says 
he.  "But  I  got  enough,  I  guess.  Maybe  they 
think  so  when  Tammany  leader  comes  around. 
Eh?" 

And  he's  such  a  dear,  simple  old  soul,  too, 
Uncle  Nels.  Too  bad  he's  lost  his  job,  isn't  it? 


Chapter  XII 
Deep  Stuff  By  Uncle  Nels 

I'VE  got  to  hand  it  to  Uncle  Nels ;  he's  a  great 
old  boy.  Deep,  shifty,  cagey,  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  And  you'd  never  guess  it  to  look  at 
him.  Not  unless  you're  a  heap  better  guesser 
than  I  am.  Why,  he'll  sit  here  in  the  apartment, 
slumped  in  his  favorite  chair  by  one  of  the  south 
windows,  his  back  turned  to  what  strikes  me  as 
a  regular  fairyland  picture — especially  just  at 
dusk  when  New  York  starts  to  light  itself  up  for 
the  night — and  he'll  neither  stir  nor  speak  for 
sometimes  an  hour  at  a  stretch;  even  when  the 
weather  man  stages  an  early  snowfall  and  you 
can  see  the  big  hotels  and  tall  office  buildings 
doing  a  sort  of  ghost  dance  through  the  shifting 
white  curtain  that  lifts  and  closes  in,  thins  and 
thickens,  until  you  get  the  weird  feeling  that  the 
Metropolitan  Tower  and  the  Bush  Terminal 
must  be  trying  out  some  new  shimmy  steps. 

But  Uncle  Nels  doesn't  bother  to  turn  his 
head.  He  seems  content  just  to  sit  and  stare 
at  nothing  at  all,  like  some  mummy  in  a  museum. 

191 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

Say,  what  goes  on  in  that  old  head  of  his,  if  any- 
thing, I'd  give  a  lot  to  know.  For  now  and  then 
he  shows  some  queer  quirks. 

Take  him  lately.  I  thought  I'd  noticed  an 
occasional  flicker  in  those  faded  blue  eyes  of  his, 
as  if  he  was  kind  of  pleased  with  himself.  Just 
a  faint  flash  that  would  show  for  an  instant,  but 
would  fade  out  the  moment  he  caught  you  watch- 
ing him.  Seemed  so,  anyway.  I  couldn't  be  sure. 
Once  I  tried  pumping  him. 

"Who's  the  joke  on,  Uncle  Nels?"  I  asked 
him. 

"Hey?"  says  he,  staring  stupid.  "I  don't 
make  jokes,  Trilby  May.  Never." 

"Oh,  come!"  says  I.  "You  forget,  maybe. 
I'll  bet  as  a  youngster  you  were  a  regular  village 
cut-up,  larking  around  with  the  corner  gang, 
banging  your  stein  on  the  table  and  shouting, 
'Veil,  skoll!'  with  the  best  of  'em.  Now  didn't 
you?" 

But  Uncle  Nels  shakes  his  head.  "Lot  you 
don't  know  about  Sweden,"  says  he.  "It  ain't  like 
Minnesota.  No.  When  I  was  young  feller  I 
got  no  time  for  such  foolishness.  I  don't  loaf 
around  pool  playing  rooms  and  we  don't  have  no 
movie  places.  All  time  we  work.  Fishin'  village 
I  live  in,  and  I  am  no  more  than  twelve  years 
old  when  I  have  to  help  mend  the  nets  and  turn 

192 


DEEP  STUFF  BY  UNCLE  NELS 

the  fish  on  dryin'  flakes.  Then  when  I'm  bigger 
I  get  sent  out  with  the  boats.  It  ain't  so  bad  in 
summer,  but  when  big  storms  comes  and  it's  cold 
— Ugh  1  You're  lucky  to  get  back  alive.  We're 
all  poor  by  Sweden,  too,  and  nobody  feels  like 
carryin'  on  same  as  young  folks  do  in  this  coun- 
try." 

"Not  even  a  dance  now  and  then?"  I  asks. 

"Oh,  maybe,"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "Not  like 
here,  though.  No  fox  trotters.  Just  Swedish 
dances." 

"You  had  a  girl,  though,  didn't  you?"  I 
goes  on. 

"Me?"  says  Uncle  Nels.  Then  he  stops  and 
rubs  his  chin.  "Yes,  I  had  a  girl — once.  Nice 
girl,  too." 

"Lena  who?"  I  suggests. 

"Not  Lena,"  says  he.  "Matilda.  Ain't  none 
any  nicer  than  her." 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "that's  the  usual  line.  But  tell  me, 
Uncle  Nels ;  why  didn't  you  marry  Matilda  ?" 

"Hey?"  says  he,  staring  at  me.  "What  you 
say  that  for?" 

"Oh,  come!"  says  I.  "It  must  have  been  a 
long  time  ago.  Doesn't  hurt  yet,  does  it?  And 
it's  a  subject  Inez  and  I  have  often  discussed — 
why  you  happened  to  stay  an  old  bachelor.  Let's 
have  the  tale." 

193 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

Of  course,  I  wasn't  expecting  any  kind  of  a 
yarn.  I  was  simply  stringing  Uncle  Nels  along, 
mainly  because  I  had  nothing  better  to  do.  I 
didn't  really  think  he'd  open  up,  either.  He  so 
seldom  does.  But  somehow  I  seemed  to  have 
jarred  something  loose  in  Uncle  Nels,  for  the 
next  thing  I  knew  he  had  glanced  around  cau- 
tious to  see  if  any  one  else  was  listening  in  and 
had  given  his  chair  a  hitch  toward  mine. 

"You — you  wanna  know  about  Matilda?" 
he  asks. 

I  nods  and  registers  sympathetic  attention. 

"More  as  thirty  years  I  don't  speak  about  her 
to  anybody,"  says  he.  "I  think  I  forget.  But 
I  don't.  And  lately — well,  I  remember  again. 
She  live  near  me,  Matilda.  Her  father  owns 
fish  boat.  It  was  him  I  work  for.  Poor  mans, 
but  not  so  poor  as  me.  But  Matilda — you'd 
think  she  was  rich  lady.  She  walk  that  way, 
look  with  her  eyes  like  that,  hold  her  chin  up  so. 
Not  much  for  dress,  but  she  don't  need  fine 
clothes,  Matilda.  You  say  Inez  looks  swell  in 
her  new  clothes  sometimes.  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  Matilda  in  things  like  that.  In  just 
old  skirt  and  torn  waist  she  look  as  well.  No 
shoes,  no  stockings,  no  hat;  but  when  she  stand 
on  shore  waitin'  for  fish  boat  to  come  in — well, 
she  look  good  to  me." 

194 


DEEP  STUFF  BY  UNCLE  NELS 

"I  get  the  picture,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  I.  "A 
village  queen,  eh  ?  And  would  she  let  you  walk 
home  with  her?" 

"Sometime,"  says  he.  "That  make  me  feel 
good.  And  sometime  we  sit  on  rocks  and  have 
long  talk.  I  was  gonna  fix  it  up,  when  I  get 
money,  that  we  go  get  married.  She  knows. 
And  then — then  comes  this  other  feller." 

"As  per  schedule,"  says  I.  "Enter  the  villain 
of  the  piece.  Who  was  the  scoundrel,  Uncle 
Nels?" 

For  a  minute  or  so  he  scowled  at  the  rug,  his 
chin  on  his  necktie.  Then  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  lifted  his  head.  "His  name  Neil  Lind- 
gren,"  says  he.  "He's  a  big,  rough  feller.  Owns 
fish  boat  himself.  Makes  good  catches,  him. 
Spends  his  money  free.  Talks  big.  And  he  sees 
Matilda,  too.  She  don't  like  him  so  much  at  first. 
No.  She  say  so.  And  once  when  we  was  walkin' 
together  this  Neil  Lindgren,  he  comes  by  and 
stops.  'Go  long,'  she  tells  him.  'I  talk  with  Nels 
now.'  He  laughs  loud,  that  Neil.  'Ho !'  says  he. 
'That  little  dumhuvud!  He  no  fit  for  nice  girl 
like  you  to  talk  with.  You  should  talk  with  big 
man — like  me.  Get  out,  Nels — little  herring 
head.'  Shove  me  away.  Well,  we  fight.  I'm  little 
feller,  you  know,  like  I  am  now.  I  ain't  much 
good  for  fight.  But  I  do  what  I  can.  I  punch 

195 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

him,  kick  him,  bite  him.  But  he's  strong,  Neil 
Lindgren.  Knock  me  down,  break  my  jaw,  kick 
in  my  ribs.  Then  he  lift  me  up  and  throw  me  on 
rocks.  I  think  I'm  dead.  And  for  long  time  I 
can't  walk  straight  any  more.  Something  goes 
bust  in  my  hip.  He  don't  care.  He  laugh  when 
he  see  me  limp  around.  He  make  joke  of  me 
with  other  fellers.  Tell  Matilda's  father  he 
did  that  because  I  was  botherin'  her.  So  I  lose 
my  job,  too." 

"Say,  he  was  a  bad  actor,  wasn't  he?"  I  puts 
in.  "But  how  about  the  girl?  Does  she  fall  for 
the  rough  stuff?" 

"She's  afraid  of  Neil,"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "But 
she's  afraid  of  her  old  man,  too.  He  want  her 
to  marry  with  Lindgren.  And  bymbye  she  does. 
That's  why  I  leave  Sweden  when  I'm  young  fel- 
ler and  go  by  Minnesota." 

"Some  tragedy,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  I.  "Who 
would  have  thought  it?  And  I  suppose  Neil 
and  Matilda  lived  happy  ever  after?" 

"Huh!"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "They  ain't  mar- 
ried a  month  when  he  gets  drunk  and  beats  her. 
All  time  like  that.  Children  come;  four,  five. 
Matilda,  she  look  like  old  woman.  Don't  hold 
her  chin  up  any  more.  That  Neil  beats  her  too 
much.  It  makes  her  get  sick.  She  die.  After 
that  Neil  have  lotta  bad  luck.  He  don't  make 

196 


'I  WAS  GONNA  FIX  IT  UP,  WHEN  I  GET  SOME  MONEY,  THAT  WE  GO  GET 

MARRIED" 


DEEP  STUFF  BY  UNCLE  NELS 

good  catch,  lose  fish  boat  in  storm.  So  he  go 
ship  for  stoker  on  tramp  steamer.  Never  come 
back.  No.  He  was  strong  man  once,  Neil  Lind- 

gren.      But  now "   Uncle  Nels   stops  with 

another  shoulder  shrug. 

"And  you  went  to  Minnesota  and  got  rich  in 
the  lumber  business,"  I  adds.  "Well,  that's 
where  you  got  the  edge  on  him.  But  no  Ma- 
tilda, eh?" 

"No,"  says  he.  "And  if  I  went  back  I  could 
own  all  the  town,  all  the  fish  boats,  everything. 
If  Matilda  was  there  I  would.  But  what's  the 
use?" 

Still,  he  didn't  seem  as  broken-hearted  as  he 
talked.  Even  as  he  finished  the  tale  I  thought 
I  could  see  sort  of  a  grim  smile  curling  his  mouth 
corners.  He  had  me  guessing,  all  right.  But 
then,  I  never  could  quite  follow  all  of  his  curves. 
For  instance,  when  Inez  reports  about  his  coming 
in  afternoons  with  his  new  suit  all  dusty  and  how 
he  wouldn't  say  where  he'd  been. 

"Where  he  go?"  asks  Inez. 

"It's  by  me,"  says  I.     "Since  that  last  snow- 
fall there's  been  no  dust  in  the  streets.     And 
you  say  he  comes  in  covered  with  it,  eh?    Over- 
; coat  and  all?" 

"He  don't  wear  overcoat  when  he  goes  out 
now,"  says  Inez. 

14  197 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"That's  funny,"  says  I.  "We've  had  some 
snappy  days  recently,  too,  and  he  generally  bun- 
dles up  well  when  it's  at  all  cold.  I  don't  get 
the  idea." 

"Maybe  he's  up  to  something  again,"  suggests 
Inez. 

I  couldn't  dope  it  out,  not  even  after  I'd 
stayed  in  one  afternoon  and  laid  for  him  to 
appear.  He  was  dusty,  I'll  say.  His  hat  was 
powdered,  it  was  on  his  mustache  and  eyebrows. 
I  had  to  lead  him  out  in  the  hall,  open  a  window, 
and  go  at  hirr  with  a  whiskbroom. 

"Say,  you  look  as  if  you'd  been  subbing  in  a 
bakery,"  says  I.  "How  do  you  get  this  way, 
Uncle  Nels?" 

"I  dunno,"  says  he.    "I  just  been  'round." 

And  then  I  got  a  clue.  It  wasn't  street  dust 
at  all.  It  was  ashes.  I  didn't  let  on,  though. 
But  the  next  day  when  he  was  ready  to  go  out 
I  beat  him  to  it.  I  caught  an  elevator  before  he 
did  and  parked  himself  casually  behind  some 
tubbed  palms  down  by  the  main  entrance,  ready 
to  trail  him.  I  meant  to  find  out  where  he  went 
to  accumulate  that  sprinkling  of  ashes. 

After  I'd  waited  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes, 
though,  and  no  sign  of  Uncle  Nels,  I  stepped 
out  and  interviewed  the  doorman.  I  asked  if 
he'd  seen  Uncle  Nels  go  out  recently. 

198 


DEEP  STUFF  BY  UNCLE  NELS 

"The  old  boy?"  says  Mike.  "No,  he  ain't 
passed,  yet,  Miss.  More  like  you'll  be  findin' 
him  downstairs." 

"Not  in  the  basement?"  says  I. 

"Sub-basement,  Miss,"  says  Mike.  "Furnace 
room.  You'll  find  the  stairs  through  the  third 
door  at  your  left.  Two  flights  down." 

I  wasn't  crazy  about  poking  down  there  alone, 
but  when  I  start  on  a  sleuthing  expedition  I  gen- 
erally finish  it.  So  down  the  dark  iron  stairway 
I  felt  my  way.  And  I  never  knew  before  that 
so  much  of  these  big  apartment  houses  was 
underground.  For  a  minute  or  so  I  thought  I 
was  lost  in  that  tangle  of  whitewashed  corri- 
dors, but  at  last  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  big 
boilers  through  an  open  door  and  located  the 
furnace  room.  I  tiptoed  up  and  took  a  peek. 
It  was  worth  while. 

Over  at  one  side  a  patch  of  daylight  filtered  in 
from  above — through  the  grating  of  the  ash- 
hoist,  I  guessed,  from  the  row  of  iron  cans  stand- 
ing near.  And  sitting  in  this  dull  light  were  two 
men.  One  was  a  heavily  built  old  pirate  dressed 
sketchily  in  a  ragged  woolen  undershirt  and  over- 
alls. His  pasty  gray  face  was  lined  and  rugged, 
his  wide  shoulders  slumped,  and  his  head  almost 
bald.  He  was  squatting  on  a  box  puffing  away 
at  an  old  corn-cob  pipe.  Opposite  him,  in  a 

199 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

somewhat  rickety  armchair  with  the  seat  uphol- 
stered with  old  newspapers,  is  Uncle  Nels.  He's 
as  much  dressed  up  as  if  he  was  ready  for  a 
Sunday  stroll  down  Fifth  Avenue,  even  to  gray 
castor  gloves  and  gold-headed  cane.  Also  he  is 
smoking  a  long,  expensive-looking  cigar. 

They  were  not  more  than  three  feet  apart, 
these  two,  and  facing  each  other.  At  first  I 
supposed  they  were  having  a  confidential  chat 
about  something  or  other.  So  I  waited  and 
stretched  an  ear.  Three  minutes,  five.  But  not 
a  word  came  from  either  of  'em.  In  fact,  as  I 
got  used  to  the  dim  light,  I  could  see  that  their 
expressions,  as  they  stared  at  each  other,  were 
absolutely  wooden.  They  were  looking,  not  so 
much  at,  as  through  one  another.  It  was  absurd, 
and  a  bit  weird.  I  don't  know  that  I've  ever 
seen  two  human  beings  in  just  that  pose.  Cows, 
sometimes.  You  know  how  they'll  stand  in  the 
pasture,  head  to  head,  not  even  flicking  an  ear 
or  batting  an  eye?  Well,  that  was  Uncle  Nels 
and  this  underground  chum  of  his.  I  couldn't 
guess  how  long  it  had  kept  up,  or  how  much 
longer  it  was  going  to  last.  But  I  meant  to 
watch  the  show  to  the  finish.  Surely  they  must 
say  something  sooner  or  later  that  would  give 
me  a  line  on  what  this  was  all  about. 

Anyway,  I  had  found  out  where  Uncle  Nels 
200 


DEEP  STUFF  BY  UNCLE  NELS 

got  his  coating  of  ashes.  Evidently  his  friend 
there  could  not  spend  the  entire  afternoon  sit- 
ting on  his  box.  At  intervals  he  must  have  been 
obliged  to  get  up  and  shovel  ashes  from  the  fire- 
boxes. Judging  from  the  appearance  of  Uncle 
Nets'  clothes  and  the  fact  that  half  of  the  cans 
were  full,  he'd  not  been  neglecting  his  job.  This 
was  one  of  his  rest  periods.  And  he  chose  to 
spend  it  staring  at  Uncle  Nels.  But  why? 

Just  as  I  had  given  up  for  the  third  time 
Uncle  Nels  seemed  to  rouse  up.  He  fished  out 
his  watch  with  a  flourish,  squinted  at  it,  and 
hunched  his  shoulders. 

"Huh!"  he  remarked. 

Then  he  got  up,  went  through  the  motions  of 
brushing  ashes  from  the  front  of  his  coat,  stuck 
the  cigar  rakish  in  one  corner  of  his  mouth,  and 
started  to  shuffle  out.  The  other  man  didn't 
move.  Didn't  as  much  as  shift  his  gaze. 

I  did,  however.  I  slipped  back  of  the  open 
door  and  let  Uncle  Nels  go  by  without  seeing 
me.  When  he  was  safely  down  the  corridor  I 
stepped  boldly  into  the  furnace  room.  But  I 
had  to  walk  directly  up  to  the  man  on  the  box 
before  he  would  notice  me.  And  at  that  he 
didn't  seem  a  bit  surprised.  He  simply  stared 
at  me,  dull  and  stupid. 

"Who's  your  friend  that  just  left?"  I  asked. 
201 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Hey?"  says  he. 

"Your  friend?"  I  repeats. 

"Him?"  says  he.  "He  no  friend  to  me,  I  no 
friend  to  him." 

"But  you  were  sitting  here  together,"  I  pro- 
tests, "as  chummy  as  two  old  pals." 

"Yah!"  he  growls,  knocking  out  his  pipe 
ashes  on  the  concrete  floor.  "No  friend." 

"Aren't  you  a  Svenga,  too?"  I  asks. 

He  nods  sullen. 

"What  name?"  I  goes  on. 

"Me?"  says  he.    "Lindgren." 

"I  guessed  as  much,"  says  I.  "Neil  Lindgren, 
aren't  you?" 

"How you  know  that?"  he  demands 

"Oh,  from  something  Uncle  Nels  let  drop," 
says  I.  "Then  you  don't  love  each  other  any 
better  than  you  used  to,  eh?" 

"Yah !"  says  he.  "Love  him!  Say,  you  know 
what  I  do  some  tarn  with  that  one — that  Nels?" 

"No,"  says  I.    "What?" 

For  a  second  his  gnarled,  knobby  old  hands 
bunched  together,  his  slack  jaw  stiffened,  and  a 
dull  glow  came  into  his  watery  eyes.  Then  the 
glow  flickered  out  and  his  hands  dropped  limp 
at  his  side. 

"Never  you  mind,"  says  he.  "I — I'm  old 
man — sick." 

202 


DEEP  STUFF  BY  UNCLE  NELS 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "you  look  like  a  good  deal  of 
a  wreck.  I  must  be  going,  though.  So  long. 
Pleasant  dreams." 

And  when  I  got  back  upstairs  I  found  Uncle 
Nels  camped  in  his  favorite  chair,  gazing  at 
nothing  at  all,  but  with  that  grim  smile  playing 
around  his  mouth  corners.  I  thought  he  ought 
to  be  warned,  though,  and  I  did  no  beating  about 
the  bush  in  doing  it. 

"See  here,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  I,  "you  want  to 
look  out  for  that  old  pirate,  Neil  Lindgren." 

"Hey!"  says  he,  turning  on  me  startled. 

"Oh,  I've  found  where  you  spend  your  after- 
noons," says  I.  "And  I'll  say  it's  a  dangerous 
indoor  pastime.  Some  day  Neil  is  going  to  swing 
on  you  with  an  ash  shovel." 

"Him!"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "That  one?  Huh! 
Once  he  could,  maybe.  But  he  ain't  strong  any 
more.  And  me,  I'm  tough.  He  knows.  He 
don't  dare." 

"All  the  same,  I  wouldn't  trust  him,"  says  I. 
"You  should  have  seen  how  murderous  he  looked 
when  I  spoke  of  you.  Besides,  I  shouldn't  think 
you  two  would  be  so  much  company  for  each 
other,  so  what's  the  sense  of  your  running  the 
risk?  And  what  can  you  find  to  talk  about  so 
long?" 

"Talk?"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "We  don't  talk," 
203 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Wha-a-atl"  says  I.  "You  don't  mean  that 
you  two  sit  and  stare  at  each  other  every  after- 
noon without  swapping  a  word?" 

Uncle  Nels  admits  that  to  be  the  general 
program. 

"But  how  long  has  this  been  going  on?"  I 
asked.  "When  did  you  first  discover  that  this 
old  enemy  of  yours  was  in  the  building?" 

"Two  weeks  ago,"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "I  see 
him  standin'  by  ash-lifter  one  mornin'.  I  know 
him  right  off.  He  know  me,  too.  He  say  'Hello, 
Nels.'  I  say 'Hello,  Neil.'  That's  all." 

"And  you  didn't  even  ask  him  how  he  got 
here?"  says  I. 

"What  for?"  says  Uncle  Nels.  "I  can  tell. 
He's  too  old  for  ship  stoker  now,  so  he  have  to 
work  on  shore — any  job  he  can  get.  He's  glad 
to  shovel  ashes  where  it's  warm,  you  bet;  glad 
for  little  wages  so  he  don't  starve." 

"I  should  think  though,"  I  went  on,  "that  you'd 
want  to  ask  him  something  about  Matilda." 

Uncle  Nels  shakes  his  head.  "No,"  says  he. 
"I  hear  all  about  her  long  time  ago.  I  get  let- 
ters. She's  gone,  Matilda.  I  don't  wanna  talk 
to  him  about  her." 

"Then  what  is  the  big  idea,  sitting  down  there 
blinking  at  him,  and  him  blinking  at  you?"  I  de- 
mands. 

204 


DEEP  STUFF  BY  UNCLE  NELS 

Uncle  Nels  gives  me  one  of  those  blank, 
simple  looks  of  his  and  rubs  his  chin.  "I — I 
dunno,"  says  he.  "It's  kinda  nice,  seein'  that 
feller  who  made  a  joke  of  me  once,  and  took 
my  girl  away,  and  kicked  me  'round — seein'  him 
old  and  poor  and  all  bust  up.  And  I  like  havin' 
him  see  me  dres-sed  up  swell,  cane  and  gloves 
and  all.  Him  shovelin'  ashes  and  me  sittin' 
smokin'  big  cigar.  Eh?" 

Say,  can  you  beat  that?  For  a  sample  of 
human  nature  in  its  bare  bones  this  frank  confes- 
sion of  Uncle  Nels  is  about  the  most  genuine  I 
ever  ran  across.  I  expect  he  had  me  gawping 
for  a  minute.  And  then  I  wondered  if  he  wasn't 
drawing  it  a  little  strong;  if,  after  all,  he  wasn't 
holding  out  something  on  me. 

"Oh,  come!"  says  I.  "I  expect  you're  plan- 
ning, one  of  these  fine  days,  to  surprise  him  by 
some  kind  act.  Going  to  get  him  into  a  sailors' 
home  somewhere,  aren't  you,  and  have  him  kept 
warm  and  well  fed  and  supplied  with  tobacco  for 
the  rest  of  his  days?  Isn't  that  your  little 
scheme?" 

"Huh!"  snorts  Uncle  Nels.  "You  think  I'm 
foolish?  That  Neil  Lindgren!  I  wouldn't  get 
him  nowhere,  unless  kicked  out  on  street,  maybe. 
I  could  do  that,  too.  But  it's  better  he  stays 
here  where  I  can  watch  him  shovel  ashes." 

205 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"You  win,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  I.  "You  look 
like  a  mild,  gentle  old  boy  who  might  be  used  as 
a  doormat  by  almost  anybody.  But  I'll  say  you 
can't.  Not  much.  And  for  a  consistent,  long- 
distance hater  I'm  willing  to  back  you  against 
any  in  the  business.  Also  you  seem  to  be  getting 
more  fun  out  of  it  than  they  generally  do.  Well, 
something  like  that  was  coming  to  you;  and  to 
this  Lindgren  person  as  well.  Only  watch  him 
close  when  he  has  an  ash  shovel  in  his  hands. 
Now  stand  up  while  I  go  over  you  with  a  whisk- 
broom." 


Chapter  XIII 
Listening  In  On  Zada 

THAT  Collins  girl  comin'  here  again  to- 
day?" demands  Inez. 

"Naturally,"  says  I.  "It's  Thursday,  isn't  it, 
and  my  bobbed  hair  needs  curling  in  the  back. 
I  know  it's  a  bit  extravagant,  but  when  you're 
asking  people  to  part  with  two-seventy-five  each 
for  orchestra  chairs  you've  at  least  got  to  look 
convincing  as  a  flapper.  Hence  the  weekly  ses- 
sion with  Sudie." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.  "Plenty  other  hair- 
dressers." 

"Why,  Inez!"  says  I.  "What  has  Miss  Col- 
lins ever  done  to  you?" 

"Her?"  says  Inez.  "She  don't  do  anything  to 
me.  I  wouldn't  let  her.  I  no  like  her,  that's  all." 

"Oh!"  says  I. 

And  after  I'd  thought  it  over  for  a  while  I 
could  dope  out  very  little  that  was  worth  much. 
There  are  certain  types  of  their  own  species,  I 
knew,  that  some  women  dislike  and  distrust  from 
instinct.  Perhaps  Sudie  Collins  was  of  this  class. 

207 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

Not  having  even  a  second  mortgage  on  any  par- 
ticular man  myself,  I  had  nothing  to  worry  about, 
and  I  couldn't  quite  see  where  Inez  needed  to 
get  green  in  the  eye. 

"But  just  how  does  Miss  Collins  manage  to 
start  your  day  all  wrong,  Inez?"  I  asks.  "She 
strikes  me  as  rather  a  chirky,  pleasant  young 
person,  and  she  certainly  knows  her  job." 

"Maybe,"  admits  Inez.  "She  has  bold  look, 
though.  Me,  I  wouldn't  trust  her." 

Well,  you  know  how  a  knock  like  that,  even 
if  you  don't  agree  with  it  at  the  time,  will  start 
you  working  up  suspicions.  Anyway,  while  she 
was  busy  on  my  revised  near-henna  hair  that 
morning  I  couldn't  help  watching  her  in  the  mir- 
ror. Yes,  there  might  be  something  in  Inez's 
hunch,  for  if  she  was  inclined  that  way  Sudie 
could  qualify  for  a  vamp.  One  of  these  slim, 
long-waisted  girls  with  an  easy,  glidy  sort  of 
walk  and  a  soothing  voice.  Besides,  she  had 
cheek  dimples,  a  fresh,  healthy  complexion  that 
didn't  need  to  be  touched  up  from  a  box,  and 
dangerous  hair — that  true  copper-red  shade  that 
no  wash  can  quite  duplicate.  With  all  that  was 
her  quick,  eager  way  of  looking  at  you  and  doing 
things,  as  if  she  was  full  of  life  and  in  love  with 
life.  Real  pep.  Yes,  she  could  get  'em  stretch- 
ing their  necks,  if  that  was  her  line.  But  was  it? 

208 


LISTENING  IN  ON  ZADA 

So  I  gave  her  an  opening  for  confidential  chat. 
But  Miss  Collins  didn't  respond  by  pouring  out 
the  story  of  her  life.  She  smiled  friendly  enough 
but  just  went  on  making  two  curls  grow  where 
only  one  grew  before.  And  at  that  I  did  get 
curious.  Only  I  didn't  make  the  mistake  of 
starting  right  out  to  pump  her.  I  began  by  tell- 
ing her  something  about  myself. 

"Do  you  know,  Miss  Collins,"  says  I,  "it's 
a  wonder  I  never  tried  hair-dressing,  for  before 
I  side-slipped  into  acting  I'd  tackled  almost 
everything  else.  I  believe  I  should  have  gone 
around  distributing  permanent  waves  and  so  on 
if  I'd  known  how  to  break  in.  I  suppose  you 
take  lessons?" 

She  admits  that  you  do. 

"You  were  in  something  else  first,  weren't 
you?"  I  suggests. 

"Manicuring,"  says  she. 

"Oh  I"  says  I.  "In  one  of  those  beauty  par- 
lors?" 

"No,"  says  she.     "Hotel  barber  shop." 

"I  see,"  says  I,  although  I  didn't.  "You 
weren't  satisfied  with  that,  eh?  I've  heard  that 
the  tipping  was  good." 

"It  is  if  you  can  stand  for  all  the  mush  the 
men  hand  you,"  says  Miss  Collins.  "I  couldn't. 
So  as  soon  as  I'd  saved  up  enough  I  hunted  up 

209 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

a  woman  who  agreed  to  give  me  a  full  course 
for  twenty-five  dollars  and  for  the  next  month 
I  spent  most  of  my  evenings  with  her." 

"Then  you  had  to  find  some  clients,  didn't 
you  ?"  I  asked.  "How  did  you  manage  that  ?" 

"That  was  the  hardest  part,"  says  she.  "I 
had  business  cards  printed  and  persuaded  the 
room  clerk  to  put  them  in  the  guests'  letter- 
boxes. For  a  week  or  so  nobody  seemed  to 
pay  any  attention  to  them.  Then  I  had  two 
or  three  calls,  and  those  ladies  must  have 
told  some  of  their  friends  about  me,  for 
inside  of  six  weeks  I  was  making  enough  to 
live  on." 

"And  now?"  I  suggested. 

"I'm  on  the  go  from  eight  in  the  morning  until 
sometimes  nine  and  ten  o'clock  at  night,"  says 
Miss  Collins.  "You  see,  I  have  to  do  so  much 
skipping  about.  First  I'll  have  an  appointment 
at  some  hotel  down  on  West  Forty-fifth,  and 
perhaps  the  next  one  will  be  up  on  East  Ninety- 
sixth.  That's  what  makes  it  hard,  especially  in 
weather  like  this.  And  I  lose  so  much  time 
jumping  around.  Honest,  when  I  get  home  at 
night  I'm  just  dead." 

Which  was  where  I  came  in  with  the  pointed 
remark:  "Some  day,  though,"  says  I,  "you'll  be 
getting  married  and  then  you'll  quit  it  all," 

210 


LISTENING  IN  ON  ZADA 

"Do  you  think  so?"  says  she,  gazing  dreamy 
over  the  top  of  my  head  into  the  mirror. 

"It's  being  done  every  day,"  says  I.  "You 
must  be  around  twenty-five,  Miss  Collins,  and 
you're  not  going  to  get  any  younger,  especially 
if  you  keep  up  this  fourteen-hour  schedule.  A 
grind  like  that  will  fade  the  cheek  roses  and  put 
wrinkles  in  the  eye-corners  that  massage  can't 
keep  out.  Besides,  the  right  man  is  bound  to  be 
knocking  around  somewhere,  waiting  for  a  nod 
from  you.  My  guess  is,  too,  that  you've  got  a 
whole  string  you  could  pick  from." 

"That's  nice  of  you  to  think  so,"  says  she. 

"Oh,  come!"  says  I.  "You're  not  going  to 
try  to  tell  me  that  all  the  men  you've  met  so  far 
have  been  duds,  or  blind  in  both  eyes?  I'll  bet 
you  could  call  up  any  one  of  a  dozen  'phone 
numbers  and  have  a  perfectly  good  man  hot-foot- 
ing it  for  the  license  bureau  within  an  hour. 
Eh?" 

She  let  loose  a  gurgly  little  laugh  at  that. 
"You  would  lose  your  bet,"  says  she,  "for  I've 
been  married  nearly  two  years." 

Of  course,  after  springing  that  one  on  me,  she 
couldn't  do  any  less  than  give  me  the  rest  of  the 
tale.  It  dated  back  to  the  big  war,  when  she  was 
living  with  her  folks  at  Dorchester,  just  outside 
of  Boston.  Seems  there  was  a  naval  flying  sta- 

211 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

tion  somewhere  near,  and  through  a  friend 
whose  brother  was  in  the  service  she  met  this 
Ted  Collins,  who'd  been  jammed  through  three 
months  of  intensive  and  useless  drills  in  naviga- 
tion, given  an  ensign's  commission,  outfitted 
with  some  dazzling  white  uniforms,  and  sent  up 
over  Boston  harbor  in  a  double-control  bomber 
with  an  instructor  who  had  finished  doing  his 
hundred  hours  solo  flying  not  more  than  three 
weeks  before.  I  gathered  that  Ted  and  Sudie 
had  hit  it  off  right  from  the  start. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "those  first  aviation  uniforms, 
with  all  the  gold  braid  on  them,  were  hard  to 
resist,  weren't  they?" 

"I'd  seen  plenty  and  kept  my  head,"  says 
Sudie,  "until  I  met  Ted  Collins.  And  it  wasn't 
the  gold  braid  or  the  brass  buttons,  or  the  wings 
on  his  collar  that  I  fell  for.  It  was  just  Ted 
himself.  He  was  such  a  clean,  wholesome  fel- 
low. Why,  even  in  greasy  overalls  and  with  his 
face  and  hands  all  smeared  up  after  working 
over  a  balky  motor,  he  could  look  clean.  And 
clean  he  was,  all  the  way  through.  Some  of  'em 
weren't  that  way,  you  know.  But  my  Ted — 
Well,  I  couldn't  tell  you.  Nor  about  that  brave, 
happy  look  in  his  blue  eyes.  For  he  was  brave. 
He  had  to  be  to  keep  that  smile  in  his  eyes  and 
go  up  every  day  in  a  rickety  old  bus  that  was  due 

212 


LISTENING  IN  ON  ZADA 

to  crash  with  him  almost  any  minute.  All  the 
boys  knew  the  sort  of  junk  the  Navy  had  wished 
on  'em  for  flying  practice,  and  not  all  of  'em 
smiled.  But  Ted  did.  Perhaps  that  was  why  he 
got  through  so  lucky.  Twice  he  was  fished  out 
of  the  water  after  a  wing  collapsed,  but  neither 
time  was  he  much  hurt.  Anyway,  it  didn't  get 
his  nerve.  It  was  after  the  second  smash  that 
we  got  engaged.  Of  course,  Ted  wanted  to  be 
married  right  off,  but  I  wouldn't  have  it.  His 
mother  needed  all  of  his  pay  that  he  could  spare, 
and  my  folks  were  just  scrubbing  along.  I  prom- 
ised to  wait  until  he  came  back.  We  thought  it 
might  be  six  months,  maybe  eight.  You  know?" 

I  nodded.  "Yes,"  says  I.  "We  were  going  to 
finish  things  in  a  hurry,  there  at  first.  He  got 
across,  did  he?" 

Sudie  said  he  was  among  the  first  lot  sent  over, 
and  that  for  a  while  he  was  stationed  on  the 
west  coast  of  Scotland,  helping  the  English 
patrol  the  Irish  Sea.  That  was  dull  but  easy 
and  fairly  safe.  Then,  after  the  big  Hinden- 
burg  drive,  when  the  British  lost  so  many  of 
their  flying  men,  he  was  transferred  to  a  land 
squadron,  taught  to  handle  a  scout  plane,  and 
sent  out  over  the  lines.  That  was  where  he  got 
smashed  up.  Not  in  an  heroic  above-the-clouds 
battle.  No.  She  said  he  wouldn't  have  minded 
15  213 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

if  it  had  come  that  way.  But  to  get  it  miles 
from  the  front,  and  simply  because  the  driver 
of  a  supply  truck  had  been  on  too  lively  a  party 
the  night  before — that  was  what  Ted  Collins 
called  rotten  luck.  He'd  been  sent  out  from 
the  rest  camp  to  scour  the  country  for  a 
Thanksgiving  turkey,  so  it  wasn't  even  official 
business.  However,  when  the  bleary-eyed  truck 
driver  had  swerved  into  an  ammunition  camion 
the  crash  had  been  just  as  complete  as  if  he'd 
taken  a  header  into  a  mine  hole.  It  finished 
Ted's  flying  days — very  nearly  finished  him. 

It  took  months  to  patch  him  up,  and  one  of 
the  best  surgeons  in  Paris,  who  happened  to  take 
an  interest  in  Ted's  case.  The  rib  and  arm 
fractures  were  rather  complicated,  too,  but  they 
finally  got  those  straightened  out.  Also  the  big 
doctor  did  wonders  in  restoring  the  right  side  of 
Ted's  face.  He  almost  gave  him  back  his  old 
smile.  The  right  hip,  though,  was  stubborn.  It 
just  wouldn't  heal  properly.  So,  months  after 
the  armistice,  Ted  Collins  came  limping  off  a 
transport  at  Hoboken  and  was  farmed  out  to 
a  badly  managed  reconstruction  hospital  for 
treatment. 

So  he  was  out  of  luck  generally.  He  had  come 
straggling  home  after  everything  was  over.  The 
war  had  been  won.  The  parading  and  shouting 

214 


LISTENING  IN  ON  ZADA 

had  stopped.  We  were  busy  getting  back  to  nor- 
malcy, so  busy  that  Ted  Collins  and  thousands 
like  him  were  forgotten  by  most  of  us.  Sudie 
Keefe  remembered,  though.  She  sold  two  Lib- 
erty bonds  for  what  they  would  bring  and  came 
on  to  New  York,  where  she  could  be  near  her 
Ted.  For  a  week  or  so  she  tried  to  do  what  she 
could  for  him  during  visiting  hours.  But  she 
found  that  she  couldn't  help  much.  She  could 
do  nothing  to  better  the  wretchedly  cooked  meals 
or  the  sloppy  nursing.  Then  she  formed  her 
plan.  With  no  practical  experience  at  all  and 
very  little  idea  of  what  she  was  letting  herself  in 
for,  she  went  after  a  job  as  manicure  and  got  it. 
"In  a  hotel  barber  shop,"  said  she,  shrugging 
her  fine  shoulders.  "You  don't  quite  know  what 
that  means.  Well,  you're  lucky.  But  I  stood  it 
somehow.  And  just  as  soon  as  I  found  out  how 
much  I  could  make  I  told  Ted  he  had  to  marry 
me.  He  wouldn't,  at  first.  Said  I  didn't  know 
what  a  wreck  he  was.  Maybe  he'd  never  be  any 
good,  anyhow.  Well,  I  wouldn't  listen  to  talk 
like  that.  I'd  got  to  take  care  of  him,  and  the 
only  way  I  could  do  it  was  as  his  wife.  I  fairly 
dragged  him  to  the  minister.  Then  I  found 
three  little  rooms,  one  a  kitchenette,  and  we  set 
up  housekeeping  with  what  few  things  I  could 
buy  from  an  installment  house. 

215 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"It's  been  up-hill  work,  but  we've  been  getting 
on.  I'm  bringing  him  around,  gradually.  I 
found  a  young  surgeon  who  was  sure  he  could 
fix  up  that  hip.  He's  almost  done  it.  Ted 
walked  three  whole  blocks  all  by  himself  yester- 
day and  he  does  most  of  the  work  around  the 
flat.  Six  months  more  and  he  may  be  able  to 
look  for  a  job — he's  an  electrical  engineer,  you 
know.  Of  course,  he'll  always  be  lame,  and  his 
right  arm  never  will  be  quite  strong.  We're 
happy,  though,  even  if  we  do  see  little  of  each 
other,  and  when  I  open  my  shop " 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "You're  going  to  have  an  es- 
tablishment of  your  own,  are  you?" 

"Only  a  small  one,"  says  she,  "but  it's  in  a 
good  location.  Here's  the  number  on  one  of 
my  cards  and  I  hope  you'll  be  able  to  come  to  me, 
for  I'm  depending  on  keeping  most  of  my  cus- 
tomers. You  see,  I've  had  to  run  frightfully  into 
debt  getting  the  shop  fitted  up,  and  if  I  can't 
swing  it — Well,  I've  got  to,  that's  all,  on  account 
of  Ted.  I  shall  start  in  there  next  week.  Wish 
me  luck,  won't  you  ?" 

"I'll  do  more  than  that,  Sudie  Collins,"  says 
I.  "I  shall  round  up  all  the  trade  I  can  for  you, 
for  I  think  you're  a  perfect  brick." 

That  got  her  choked  up  so  she  couldn't  say  a 
word  and  when  she  left  those  bright  eyes  of  hers 

216 


LISTENING  IN  ON  ZADA 

were  somewhat  misty.  Inez  noticed  it  as  she 
passed  her  in  the  hallway  and,  of  course,  was 
curious. 

"What's  the  matter  with  that  Collins  girl?" 
she  asks.  "You  been  findin'  out  things  about  her 
that  makes  her  cry,  Trilby  May?" 

"Yes  and  no,"  says  I.  "And  listen,  Inez,  your 
dope  about  her  was  all  wrong.  Vamping  isn't 
her  specialty,  any  more  than  playing  the  saxa- 
phone  is  yours.  She  isn't  Miss  Collins  at  all, 
except  for  business  reasons,  for  she's  married 
to  a  bunged-up  war  hero  that  she's  supporting 
by  working  herself  to  a  frazzle.  So  you've  got 
to  line  up,  Inez,  as  one  of  her  regulars  when 
she  opens  her  new  shop." 

And  after  she'd  heard  the  whole  tale  Inez  is 
almost  as  strong  for  Sudie  as  I  am.  She  has  a 
good  heart,  Inez,  when  you  can  get  at  it.  But 
she's  bound  to  have  her  suspicions,  even  if  she 
has  to  shift  'em  to  somebody  else. 

"That's  a  lot  to  do  for  any  man,"  says  she. 
"If  he's  worth  it,  all  right;  but  some  of  them 
war  heroes  ain't  much  good,  I  hear." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "I  have  her  word  for  it  that 
this  Ted  of  hers  is  a  regular  fellow.  Let's  hope 
she's  a  good  judge." 

"Suppose  he  wasn't  all  she  thinks,"  suggests 
Inez.  "That  would  be  tough,  eh?" 

217 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Say,  Inez,"  I  protests,  "for  the  love  of  soup 
quit  the  crape  hanging." 

And  you'd  think,  to  hear  me  press-agenting 
for  Miss  Collins'  new  shop  those  next  few  days, 
that  I  had  a  half  interest  in  the  business.  I  went 
around  telling  everybody  I  knew  about  what  a 
swell  hairdresser  she  was,  even  to  a  casual  ac- 
quaintance I  met  in  Auntie  Bates'  dressing  room 
at  the  theater. 

Perhaps  you  remember  my  mentioning  Mrs. 
Bates,  who  plays  the  mother  role  in  "The  Flap- 
per." Giddy  old  girl  who  used  to  be  in  burlesque 
and  never  got  over  it.  This  friend  of  hers,  a 
Miss  Zada  Leclair,  is  in  vaudeville  on  the  big- 
time  circuit,  and  looks  it.  Rather  a  brilliant 
brunette,  but  with  a  selfish  little  mouth  and  hard 
black  eyes.  What  I  noticed  most,though,was  her 
wonderful  glossy  hair  and  the  atrocious  "do"  she 
had  on  it.  So  I  skimped  my  make-up  time  long 
enough  to  tell  her  about  Sudie  Collins  and  give 
her  the  address.  She  promised  to  look  her  up. 

I  might  not  have  been  so  enthusiastic  if  I'd 
known  she  was  going  to  horn  in  on  my  appoint- 
ment hour  the  very  next  day  and  keep  me  warm- 
ing a  chair  in  the  new  shop  for  a  full  half  hour. 
But  there  I  found  her,  having  a  full  facial  and 
all  the  trimmings,  so  I  settled  myself  in  the  little 
waiting  room  and  made  the  best  of  it. 

218 


LISTENING  IN  ON  ZADA 

She  proved  to  be  a  chatty  person,  Miss  Le- 
clair.  I  listened  in  while  she  told  Sudie  all  about 
what  a  good  act  she  had  with  Morrie  Kahn, 
whose  stage  name  was  Victor  Vaughn.  But 
finally,  when  she'd  nearly  exhausted  that  subject, 
she  switched  to  personal  remarks  about  Sudie. 

"That's  natural  henna,  ain't  it?"  she  asks. 
"Your  hair,  I  mean.  I  thought  so.  I  can  gen- 
erally tell.  And  that's  a  stunning  waist  you  got 
on,  Miss  Collins.  So  simple  and  all.  I  see 
you're  still  wearin'  one  of  them  aviator  pins. 
Don't  see  so  many  of  'em  now,  do  you?  Gee, 
wa'n't  the  girls  crazy  over  'em  a  few  years  ago. 
Only  it  got  so  you  could  buy  'em  at  the  five-and- 
ten  stores.  Imitations,  you  know.  I  had  a  pair 
of  real  wings,  though.  Got  'em  off  a  reg'lar 
flyer,  one  I  met  in  Paris  while  I  was  over  doin' 
my  act  on  the  Y  circuit,  back  of  the  lines.  Is  that 
a  real  pin  of  yours,  Miss  Collins?" 

Sudie  admits  that  it  is. 

"You  got  it  off'm  a  flyer?"  asks  Miss  Leclair. 

Sudie  nods. 

"Well,  I  hope  you  didn't  lose  track  of  him, 
the  way  I  did  mine,"  goes  on  Miss  Leclair.  "Say, 
he  was  some  boy,  that  young  feller,  even  if  he 
had  been  badly  busted  up  and  was  still  supposed 
to  be  in  the  hospital.  Met  him  at  a  party 
some  officer  friends  of  mine  was  giving  to 

219 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

celebrate  gettin'  the  Huns  on  the  run.  It  was 
a  whale  of  a  party,  all  right.  Fizz  water !  Say, 
I  never  saw  so  much  opened  in  one  night.  Not 
that  I  generally  monkey  much  with  that  stuff. 
Never  when  I'm  working.  But  I  was  all  through 
then  and  ready  to  sail  back  on  the  next  trans- 
port for  good  old  New  York.  Besides,  this  was 
a  special  occasion.  And  the  first  thing  I  knew  I 
was  cuttin'  loose.  Everybody  was,  that  night." 

"Ye-e-es?"  says  Sudie,  sort  of  draggy.  "Now 
will  that  be  all  today?" 

"You  might  thin  out  the  eyebrows  a  little," 
says  Miss  Leclair.  "And  as  I  was  sayin',  I  cer- 
tainly did  get  going.  So  did  this  boy  with  the 
nice  eyes  that  sat  next  to  me.  He  forgot  all 
about  being  a  "blesse"  and  everything  else.  All 
he  remembered  was  that  he  had  a  thirst  and  that 
I  was  in  reach  of  his  good  arm.  I  didn't  care 
much  what  I  did,  either.  So  when  the  party 
broke  up,  along  toward  mornin' — Well,  maybe 
you  can  guess.  I'm  not  sayin'  a  word  more. 
Only  he  was  some  boy,  that  feller,  some  boy  I" 

Glancing  through  the  door  and  into  the  mirror 
I  could  see  Sudie  biting  her  upper  lip.  I  thought 
I  could  tell  why.  She  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry  to 
get  through  with  Miss  Leclair  and  shunt  her  out 
of  the  chair.  Before  she  went,  though,  Miss  Le- 
clair had  one  more  thought. 

220 


LISTENING  IN  ON  ZADA 

"The  wings  he  gave  me,"  she  added,  "had  his 
squadron  number  on  the  front.  I  remember 
now,  just  as  plain  what  it  was.  And  say — Why, 
yours  has  the  same  number  I  And  he  was  tellin' 
me  about  a  girl  of  his  back  home  that  he  was 
goin'  to  marry.  Yes.  Say,  didn't  somebody  say 
your  first  name  was  Sudie?" 

"I — I  shouldn't  wonder,"  says  Miss  Collins, 
dropping  her  chin  like  a  badgered  witness. 

"Why,  then,"  goes  on  Miss  Leclair,  "it  must 
have  been  the  same  feller.  What  do  you  know 
about  that,  eh?  Tedl  Wasn't  that  his  name?" 

Sudie  nods. 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaims  Miss  Leclair. 
"Well,  he  was  some  boy,  all  right.  Wonder  if 
he  ever  got  back  or  what  happened  to  him?  Did 
you  ever  hear?" 

"Yes,"  says  Sudie.     "I  married  him." 

"Oh,  you  did!"  gasps  Miss  Leclair.  "Say, 
dearie,  don't  you  pay  no  attention  to  that  guff  I 
was  givin'  you  about  the  party.  I — I  might  have 
been  stretchin'  it  some;  and  maybe  he  wasn't 
the  one." 

But  by  that  time  Sudie  Collins  had  her  chin 
up  once  more  and  she  had  those  clear  steady 
eyes  of  hers  fixed  on  the  other  woman.  "Oh, 
yes,"  says  she.  "It  was  Ted.  He  told  me  all 
about  it — before  we  were  married." 

221 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Good  Gawd!"  says  Zada  Leclair.  "What 
a  poor  nut!  But  don't  you  worry  about  it.  Men 
ain't  worth  worryin'  about,  anyway." 

"My  Ted  is,"  says  Sudie.  "That's  why  he 
told.  But  now  that  I've  seen  you,  I'm  wonder- 
ing why  he  bothered.  That's  all,  Miss  Leclair. 
Come  again,  won't  you?" 

And  as  Zada  passed  me  on  her  way  out  she 
whispered  husky:  "Say,  did  you  get  that?  Ain't 
she  got  proper  feelin's,  or — or  was  she  slippin' 
me  something?" 

"I  think  one  of  your  propositions,"  says  I, 
"is  a  good  guess." 

And  after  Sudie  had  sobbed  a  little  on  my 
shoulder  she  proceeded  to  get  busy  with  the 
curling  tongs. 

It  was  that  same  afternoon,  too,  that  Inez 
urges  me  to  go  with  her  to  see  a  new  movie 
feature  that's  advertised  as  an  emotional  thriller. 

"No,  thanks,  Inez,"  says  I.  "I  don't  need  to. 
"I've  just  been  to  the  hairdresser." 


Chapter  XIV 
Willard  Looks  In 

AT  first  I  thought  it  might  be  a  hold-up,  for 
I'd  been  breezing  along  in  my  afternoon 
walk  through  Central  Park  without  noticing 
much  where  I  was  going  until  I  found  myself 
up  on  that  out-of-the-way  knoll  that's  decorated, 
more  or  less,  by  the  Garibaldi  statue.  And  sud- 
denly I  discovered  that  I  was  being  trailed. 
Being  such  a  brisk  day,  there  wasn't  even  a  nurse- 
maid in  sight — just  Garibaldi  and  me,  and  this 
man  in  the  heavy  gray  ulster. 

Well,  old  Garibaldi  might  have  been  useful  in 
his  time,  but  he  wasn't  going  to  be  much  use  to  me 
then,  and  as  there  was  no  path  down  except  the 
one  behind  me,  where  this  party  of  the  second  part 
was  blocking  the  way,  it  seemed  to  be  up  to  me  to 
make  some  kind  of  a  snappy  move  if  I  was  going 
to  save  my  silver-fox  scarf  and  wrist-watch.  So 
with  my  usual  shrinking  modesty  I  whirls  on  him 
abrupt  and  gives  him  the  scornful  double  O. 

"Say,  old  Rubber  Heels,"  says  I,  "who  do  you 
think  you're  sleuthing,  anyway?" 

223 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

That  stops  him,  all  right.  He  makes  a  couple 
of  fishy  motions  with  his  mouth,  as  if  he  was 
gasping  for  breath,  and  then  he  comes  out  with 
the  glad  hail. 

"Why,  Trilby  May!"  says  he.  "I  just  knew 
it  must  be  you,  but  I  wasn't  quite  sure  until  you 
spoke.  You  remember  me,  of  course?" 

"Eh?"  says  I,  taking  another  squint  between 
the  high  points  of  the  ulster  collar,  for  as  a 
matter  of  fact  I'd  been  too  nervous  to  really  see 
anything  before.  "Why  it's — er — Willard  Big- 
ler,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  says  he,  beaming. 

"From  Duluth,"  I  added,  just  to  make  talk. 

He  nods  enthusiastic.  As  though  there  could 
be  a  Willard  Bigler  from  anywhere  else !  Not 
that  Duluth  makes  a  specialty  of  Willard  Big- 
lers,  but  he  isn't  exactly  the  type  you'd  expect  to 
find  duplicated  anywhere.  No,  Willard  is  in  a 
class  by  himself — I  hope. 

"I've  been  following  you  for  the  last  half 
hour,"  says  he,  "trying  to  get  near  enough 
to  make  sure  before  I  spoke.  I  didn't  want 
to  make  any  mistake  and  get  in  trouble,  you 
know." 

"I  know,  Willard,"  says  I.  "Caution  is  your 
middle  name." 

"Well,"  says  he,  "you  got  to  be  careful  in  a 
224 


WILLARD  LOOKS  IN 

strange  town.  Especially  a  place  like  New  York. 
What  you  doing — just  taking  a  walk?" 

"You've  guessed  it,  Willard,"  says  I.  "And 
you — I  suppose  you're  measuring  Central  Park 
for  building  lots  or  something  like  that?" 

"No,"  says  he.  "I'm  on  a  business  trip, 
though.  Client  of  mine  back  home  sent  me  on 
to  close  a  lease  with  one  of  these  chain-store  con- 
cerns for  a  corner  property  on  Superior  Street. 
Big  thing  for  me,  expenses  paid  and  all." 

"I'll  bet  that  item  of  expenses  was  thoroughly 
understood  before  you  started,"  says  I. 

Willard  stiffens  his  neck  at  that,  just  as  he 
used  to,  and  does  a  shoulder  pivot  to  stare  at  me, 
but  when  I  spring  my  crooked  smile  on  him  he 
thinks  better  of  it.  "You're  just  the  same  Trilby 
May,  aren't  you?"  he  says. 

"Absolutely  not,"  says  I. 

"Oh,  yes  you  are,"  he  insists.  "And  say, 
couldn't  we  find  a  place  to  sit  down  somewhere 
and  have  a  good  long  talk?" 

"Think  it's  perfectly  safe,  do  you?"  I  asks. 

"Oh,  come!"  he  protests.  "Nobody  in  this 
town  knows  me.  Besides,  I — I've  been  thinking 
a  lot  about  you  since  you  left." 

Which  ought  to  give  you  the  situation.  Yes, 
from  out  the  dead  and  buried  past  I'd  gone  and 
dug  up  an  old  admirer.  I  expect  I  can  call  him 

225 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

that  without  kidding  myself  much,  even  if  he  did 
manage  to  keep  it  such  a  dark  secret  back  in  Du- 
luth.  In  fact,  he  used  to  be  so  quiet  and  subtle 
about  it  that  I  might  have  missed  most  of  it 
myself  if  there  had  been  any  other  entries.  But 
when  a  girl  has  to  struggle  along  with  such  un- 
alluring  hair  and  eyes  as  mine  you  can  gamble 
she  doesn't  overlook  any  friendly  glances  from 
the  hip-pocket  sex. 

You  see,  it  was  when  Inez  and  I  were  doing 
our  zippy  waitress  act  in  Druot's,  juggling  plates 
of  ice  cream  and  dealing  soft  drinks  off  the  arm, 
that  I  got  to  know  Willard  Bigler  real  well. 
Some  kind  of  a  lawyer,  I  understood  Willard  to 
be ;  not  one  of  the  leading  legal  lights  of  Duluth 
or  anything  like  that,  with  big  corporations  pay- 
ing him  an  annual  fee.  No,  I  believe  he  and  his 
partner  specialized  in  rent  cases,  leases,  and 
other  real  estate  doings.  I  was  told  that  Willard 
was  rather  well  off,  to;  with  a  good  bank  bal- 
ance and  a  half  interest  in  a  business  block  that 
had  been  left  to  him  and  his  sister. 

You'd  never  guess  it,  though,  to  watch  him 
lunching  in  Druot's  off  a  chocolate  milk-shakex 
and  one  of  our  thin  ham  sandwiches.  That's 
how  I  first  got  a  line  on  his  thrifty  habits.  Say, 
when  you  see  'em  squeeze  two  dimes  and  a  nickel 
out  of  a  change  purse  and  then  tip  you  with  a 

226 


WILLARD  LOOKS  IN 

smile  you  can  guess  the  rest.  Uh-huh.  Willard 
was  just  as  free  with  his  money  as  if  he  had  glue 
on  his  fingers.  He  shed  it  as  easy  as  a  catfish 
does  its  skin. 

Why  he  should  pick  me  out  as  the  target  for 
his  shifty  eye  rolling  was  always  a  puzzle,  when 
there  was  Inez  and  a  lot  more  flossy  waitresses 
on  the  force.  Maybe  he  misunderstood  that 
friendly  smile  of  mine  and  didn't  notice  that  I 
spread  it  around  careless  on  all  the  customers. 
But  the  first  thing  I  knew  Willard  was  planting 
himself  regularly  every  noon  at  one  of  my  tables 
and  getting  chummy,  in  his  stiff,  shy  way.  He'd 
try  to  hold  my  hand  when  I  passed  him  the  check 
and  he'd  ask  in  a  husky  whisper,  "Well,  how  is 
Trilby  today,  eh?" 

Course,  that  was  nothing  at  all  to  what  the 
average  young  hick  pulled  when  he  dropped  in 
at  Druot's  for  a  sundae  or  a  box  of  mixed  choco- 
lates. Stella,  our  wash  blonde  at  the  candy 
counter,  used  to  get  pouty  if  she  wasn't  tipped 
or  complimented  once  every  ten  minutes,  or 
dated  up  for  an  Armory  dance  or  a  show  at  the 
Orpheum. 

But  Willard  was  no  dashing  young  sport.  In 
fact,  he  was  a  good  deal  of  an  old  bach,  well 
along  in  the  thirties,  I  should  judge.  And  you 
wouldn't  exactly  call  him  a  he-vamp  either.  No, 

227 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

he  didn't  have  patent  leather  hair  or  the  profile 
of  a  collar  ad.  chappie.  Perhaps  the  slightly 
popped  eyes  and  the  stiff  joint  in  his  neck  disquali- 
fied him  from  the  quick  action  Romeo  class,  too. 
So  I  didn't  work  up  a  high-cheek  color  and  a 
fluttery  heart  when  he  gave  me  a  sly  finger 
squeeze  and  called  me  Trilby. 

Besides,  he  was  so  foxy  about  it.  One  of 
these  subtle,  shifty  workers,  Willard  was,  who 
never  took  a  chance  of  getting  caught.  Even 
when  we  got  well  enough  acquainted  for  him 
to  ask  me  out  for  a  Sunday-night  drive  in  the 
old  roadster  he'd  inherited  he  would  arrange 
to  pick  me  up  on  a  dark  corner  and  he'd 
never  hit  anything  but  back  streets  and  dirt 
roads. 

Of  course,  when  I  got  wise  to  these  little  tricks 
I  didn't  do  a  thing  but  call  for  a  diagram.  I 
asked  him  what  was  the  idea  of  all  this  secrecy 
stuff,  why  we  didn't  edge  into  Lakeside  amuse- 
ment park  with  the  other  Sunday  night  revelers, 
and  how  about  taking  me  to  Chin  Long's  for  a 
chow  main  banquet.  Say,  I  got  some  fine  squirms 
out  of  Willard  during  that  session,  but  mighty 
little  else.  For  the  best  part  of  an  hour  he 
ducked  and  stalled  around,  but  I  finally  made  him 
sketch  out  his  objections  to  being  seen  in  public 
with  me.  And  I'll  say  they  were  rich. 

228 


WILLARD  LOOKS  IN 

Not  that  Willard  put  'em  crude  or  brutal.  He 
didn't  have  that  much  courage.  But  here's  what 
it  amounted  to :  he  was  Willard  Yates  Bigler,  a 
member  of  the  Minnesota  bar,  and  a  professional 
man  of  a  certain  standing  in  the  social  world. 
He  had  to  consider  that.  How  would  it  look  to 
some  of  his  friends  or  relatives  if  he  was  seen 
going  around  with — Well,  somebody  they'd 
never  seen  or  heard  of  J  Or  perhaps  they  had 
seen  me — in  Druot's.  Suppose  some  of  his 
clients  found  out?  Or  his  married  sister? 
Surely  I  could  see  how  he  stood. 

"You  bet  I  do,  Willard,"  I  told  him.  "You're 
standing  at  the  kitchen  door  trying  to  kid  along 
the  hired  girl.  But  say,  it's  all  off.  You  better 
beat  it  before  she  gets  careless  and  pushes  you 
into  the  ash  can.  Get  me?  Here,  let  me  out 
on  this  next  corner  where  I  can  catch  a  street  car 
home.  Sure  I  mean  it.  And  from  now  on,  Wil- 
lard, remember  we're  perfect  strangers." 

I  may  have  said  a  lot  more,  but  that's  all  I  re- 
member now.  Anyway,  that  was  the  finish  of 
my  little  affair  with  Willard.  At  least,  I  thought 
it  was.  He  shifted  his  trade  to  a  quick  lunch 
joint  and  from  then  on  I  only  saw  him  occa- 
sionally as  he  flitted  past.  A  few  months  later 
Inez  and  I  made  our  quick  exit  from  Duluth  and 
did  a  wild  dash  for  New  York  to  hunt  for  her 
16  229 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

Uncle  Nels,  and  Willard  Bigler  faded  into  the 
background  as  a  serio-comic  memory  that  got 
fainter  and  fainter. 

Yet  here  he  bobs  up  again,  big  as  life,  staring 
mushy  at  me  out  of  those  near  pop  eyes  from  the 
other  end  of  a  Central  Park  bench. 

"I  say,  Trilby,"  he  begins,  "you — you're  look- 
ing mighty  fine." 

"Like  the  bobbed  hair,  do  you?"  I  asks. 

"It's  stunning,"  says  he.  "Very  becoming  to 
you." 

"Same  old  carroty  red,  though,"  says  I. 
"There's  less  of  it  than  before.  I  couldn't  do 
anything  to  change  my  green  eyes,  however." 

"You  don't  need  to,"  says  he.  "I — I  always 
did  like  your  eyes,  Trilby.  There's  so  much  life 
and  snap  to  'em.  And  you're  dressing  rather 
smart  now,  aren't  you?  Real  New  Yorky. 
What — what  are  you  doing?" 

"Oh,  working,  as  usual,"  says  I. 

"Hm-m-m!"  says  Willard.  "Must  have  a 
good  job.  You — you  get  an  afternoon  off  occa- 
sionally, do  you?" 

"My  work  is  mostly  on  the  night  shift,"  says 
I.  "Why?" 

"Well,"  says  he,  "I  was  just  thinking.  You 
see,  I've  got  to  stay  around  town  several 
days,  maybe  a  week  more.  And  it's  pretty 

230 


WILLARD  LOOKS  IN 

dull  and  lonesome  poking  about  by  yourself. 
So  I  didn't  know  but  what  you  might  like 
to— er " 

"Take  in  the  art  museum  with  you  on  a  free 
day,"  says  I,  "or  visit  the  Aquarium,  or  Grant's 
Tomb?" 

"Oh,  come  now !"  protests  Willard.  "I'm  not 
such  a  tight-wad  as  all  that.  What  about  vaude- 
ville, or  hunting  up  one  of  these  tea-dancing 
places?" 

"How  reckless,  Willard!"  says  I.  "Suppose 
some  one  from  home  should  see  you?" 

"I'll  risk  that,"  says  he,  wagging  his  head 
bold.  "Besides,  this  isn't  Duluth,  and  I  can  do 
what  I  please." 

I  shook  my  head.  "I  don't  think  you  should, 
Willard,"  says  I.  "It  wouldn't  be  worth  while." 

"But  it  would  be  to  me,"  he  insists.  "I  guess 
you  never  knew  how  much  I  liked  you,  Trilby 
May.  Fact!  You're  so  different  from  most 
girls — always  so  lively  and  cheerful.  Of  course, 
while  you  were  in  that  ice  cream  place  I  couldn't 
take  you  around  as  I  wanted  to.  It  wouldn't 
have  looked  well.  You  understood  that.  But 

here "  Willard  finishes  with  a  careless 

wave  of  his  hand. 

I  suppose  I  should  have  laughed  in  his  face 
and  left  him  sitting  there.  But  I  couldn't  help 

231 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

stringing  him  along  and  watching  that  wonderful 
ego  of  his  develop  itself. 

"You're  taking  an  awful  chance,  Willard," 
says  I,  "but  since  you're  bound  to  be  a  tourist 
cut-up,  I  think  I'll  just  go  you  once.  I'd  love  to 
have  a  few  dances,  and  I  wouldn't  mind  a  little 
tea  and  cinnamon  toast  to  go  with  it.  I  know 
a  bully  place,  too." 

"Then  let's  go,"  says  he. 

We  went.  And  if  Willard  was  expecting  me 
to  tow  him  to  some  cut-rate  jazz  hall,  where  you 
buy  so  many  dance  tickets  for  a  dollar,  he  missed 
his  guess.  For  my  first  move  after  we  got  out 
of  the  park  was  to  hail  a  taxi  and  tell  the  driver 
to  take  us  to  the  Plutoria.  Perhaps  you  know 
what  they  nick  you  for  when  you  stray  in  there 
and  ask  for  a  table  in  the  Pompeiian  grill?  So 
far  as  I  know  it's  the  stiffest  afternoon  cover 
charge  in  town.  But  then,  wasn't  I  thoughtful 
enough  to  slip  into  the  ladies'  cloak  room  while 
Willard  was  getting  over  the  first  shock?  And 
when  I  came  out  after  renewing  that  schoolgirl 
complexion  and  a  slight  contact  with  the  lip-stick 
I  did  my  best  to  make  him  forget  what  had  hap- 
pened to  his  pocketbook. 

"Isn't  this  a  gorgeous  room,  Willard?"  I 
asked. 

"It  ought  to  be,"  gasps  Willard. 
232 


WILLARD  LOOKS  IN 

"And  such  a  perfectly  corking  dance  orches- 
tra," I  goes  on.     "It's  said  to  be  the  best  in 


town." 


"I  believe  it,"  says  he.  "They  just  sold  it 
to  me." 

"They're  playing  'Mon  Homme,'  "  says  I, 
"my  favorite  fox  trot.  Shall  we  try  it?" 

"All  right,"  says  Willard.  "I'm  afraid, 
though,  that  my  dancing  is  a  bit  rusty." 

He  hadn't  overstated  the  case.  Rusty  was 
the  word.  Or  else  corroded.  Yes,  Willard's 
fox  trotting  was  as  obsolete  as  a  day  coach  on  an 
Erie  local.  He  did  the  one-two,  one-two,  turn, 
just  as  they  did  when  I  first  saw  it  performed  in 
Red  Men's  Hall  up  in  Coleraine,  Minn.,  four 
years  ago.  Only  Willard  never  did  have  any 
spring  in  his  knees  or  the  least  notion  of  keeping 
time  to  the  music.  He  simply  bobbed  around, 
bumping  and  getting  bumped,  holding  me  firmly 
but  respectfully  at  arm's  length.  Anyway,  we 
finished  without  any  casualties  except  that  I'd 
had  both  feet  stepped  on  and  Willard's  collar 
was  limp  at  the  edges. 

He  would  have  tackled  the  second  encore, 
but  I  suggested  that  we  sit  it  out  and  after  he'd 
ordered  tea  and  fancy  toast  he  had  time  to  watch 
what  the  other  dancers  were  doing.  I  suppose 
he'd  been  so  dazed  when  he  first  came  in  that  he 

233 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

hadn't  noticed  some  of  the  new  stunts  that  were 
being  pulled  by  various  couples.     But  he  saw 
now,  and  his  mouth  came  open. 
•     "I  say,  Trilby,"  he  whispers,  "is — is  that  the 
fox  trot  they're  dancing?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  says  I,  "with  a  few  variations, 
such  as  the  'Frisco  shiver,  the  triple  pivot,  and 
the  scandal  walk." 

"But — but  I  don't  know  how  to  do  any  of 
those  things,"  says  he. 

"So  I  noticed,"  says  I.  "They'll  play  a  one- 
step  next.  Perhaps  you'll  be  better  at  that." 

"I — I  think  I'd  like  to  see  how  it  goes  first," 
says  Willard. 

But  after  a  few  minutes  of  watching  he  con- 
cluded that  he  didn't  care  to  dance  any  more. 
In  fact,  just  thinking  of  his  first  exhibition  on 
the  floor  of  the  Plutoria  grill  got  him  pink  in 
the  ears. 

"Why,"  says  he,  "I  must  have  made  a  show 
of  myself.  I — I  didn't  know  I  was  such  a  back 
number,  Trilby." 

"Oh,  what's  the  difference?"  says  I.  "You 
don't  know  any  of  these  people.  What  do  you 
care  for  a  lot  of  strangers?" 

Willard  wouldn't  be  consoled,  though.  He's 
a  sensitive  plant,  all  right,  and  if  he  hadn't  just 
ordered  about  three  dollars'  worth  of  tea  and 

234 


WILLARD  LOOKS  IN 

toast  I  believe  he  would  have  sneaked  out  then 
and  there.  As  it  was  he  slumped  in  his  chair  and 
watched  the  dancing  fascinated. 

"Look  at  those  girls!"  he  gasped.  "What 
bold,  hard  faces  they  have.  But  I  suppose 
most  of  them  are  professionals — chorus  girls 
and  actresses,  aren't  they?" 

"Just  flappers,"  says  I. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  some  of  them  must  be  ac- 
tresses," insists  Willard. 

"Well,  what  then?"  says  I.  "Are  you  actress 
shy?" 

"Why,  not  exactly,"  says  he.  "Only  I 
wouldn't  care  to  get  mixed  up  with — with  that 
sort  of  persons,  you  know." 

"How  quaint!"  says  I.  "People  used  to  talk 
like  that,  but  I  thought  such  ideas  had  gone  out. 
Perhaps,  though,  you've  had  a  bitter  personal 
experience,  Willard?" 

"No,"  says  he  promptly.  "But  it  isn't  just 
an  old-fashioned  prejudice  of  mine,  either. 
Maybe  you  never  heard  of  Freddie  Benson? 
No  ?  Well,  he  was  in  my  class  at  Northwestern 
and  one  of  my  best  friends.  Bright,  clever  young 
fellow;  good  family,  and  all  that.  Went  into 
his  father's  business  after  he  graduated  and  was 
sent  on  as  assistant  manager  of  the  New  York 
branch.  You  know,  Benson  blankets.  Freddie 

235 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

got  mixed  up  with  an  actress.  Spent  a  fortune 
on  her.  Had  to  forge  checks  to  keep  up  the 
pace.  Simply  ruined  him.  Of  course,  all  ac- 
tresses are  not  like  that,  but  they — they're  ex- 
pensive acquaintances." 

"Really!"  says  I,  smothering  a  chuckle.  "Per- 
haps you  think  I'm  an  expensive  friend,  too?" 
And  I  glanced  at  the  waiter's  check  Willard  was 
fingering. 

"Oh,  you!"  says  he.  "You're  different, 
Trilby.  And  I  guess  I  can  stand  this  sort  of 
thing — er — once  in  a  while.  Anyway,  I  want 
to  see  a  lot  of  you  while  I'm  here.  Got  to  make 
up  for  lost  time.  How  about  getting  off  for  one 
evening  and  going  to  a  play  with  me?  Some- 
thing good." 

"Sorry,"  says  I,  "but  Sunday  night  is  the  only 
one  I  have  off." 

"A  little  late  supper  somewhere,  then,"  he 
goes  on. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  says  I,  getting  a  sudden  hunch. 
"If  you're  bound  to  be  a  real  sport  I'll  meet  you 
at  eleven  to-night  at  the  Sheridan  Square  subway 
station,  uptown  side.  And  I'll  stake  you  to  a 
theater  ticket  myself.  Oh,  it  isn't  going  to  cost 
me  anything.  It's  a  play  written  by  a  friend  of 
mine,  'The  Prince  and  the  Flapper.'  They  say 
it's  rather  good.  It's  down  in  Greenwich  Vil- 

236 


WILLARD  LOOKS  IN 

lage,  you  know,  and  all  you  have  to  do  is  call 
at  the  box  office.  I'll  arrange  to  have  the  ticket 
waiting  for  you.  Then  afterward— the  little 
supper.  Eh?" 

It  sounded  good  to  Willard.  He  fell  for  it. 
And  when  I  got  to  my  dressing  room  that  night 
I^sent  word  to  the  office  to  have  a  front-row 
aisle  seat  saved  for  a  Mr.  Bigler,  who  would 
call.  So  at  precisely  eight-fifty-three  that  eve- 
ning, when  I  dashed  on  as  The  Flapper,  Willard 
got  the  prize  jolt  of  his  whole  career. 

Just  how  soon  he  recognized  me  after  I  came 
on  I  couldn't  judge,  being  too  busy  getting  over 
my  lines  and  business,  but  by  the  time  I  could 
locate  him  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  had  sus- 
tained the  full  shock.    His  mouth  was  open  and 
his  eyes  popped.     He  had  discovered  that  the 
Trilby  May  he    had   known  as  a    waitress    in 
Druot's,  Duluth,  and  the  Trilby  May  Dodge 
on    the    program,    were    one    and    the    same. 
Whether  he  was  admitting  that  I  was  a  real 
actress  or  not  is  something  else  again,  but  if  he'd 
been  wondering  what  sort  of  a  job  I  had  that 
kept  me  busy  every  evening  he  had  the  full  par- 
ticulars.    I  don't  know  when  I've  enjoyed  my 
work  so  much  or  put  more  real  pep  into  a  per- 
formance. 

As  usual,  I  found  Barry  Platt  waiting  back 
237 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

stage  after  the  curtain.  "Sorry,  old  dear,"  says 
I,  "but  I'm  dated  up  for  a  supper  party  to- 
night." 

"Who's  the  favored  one,  I'd  like  to  know?" 
says  Barry. 

"An  old  flame  of  mine  from  back  home,"  says 
I.  "But  you  might  see  me  as  far  as  the  subway 
entrance." 

Barry  grumbled  a  bit,  but  he  came  along,  and 
there  was  no  Willard  in  sight.  We  waited  fully 
ten  minutes  for  him,  too. 

"Huh!"  says  Barry.  "What's  happened  to 
this  old  flame  of  yours?" 

"Jarred  out,  I'm  afraid,"  says  I.  "Now  isn't 
that  just  my  luck !  I'll  bet  he's  back  at  his  hotel 
by  this  time,  packing  his  bag  for  Duluth.  Oh, 
well !  Perhaps  I  can  survive  the  blow." 

"How  about  my  subbing  in  on  that  supper 
date,  Trilby  May?"  asks  Barry. 

"What  a  clever  thought,  Barry  boy!"  says  I, 
taking  his  arm.  "And  I  think  a  broiled  lobster 
would  be  most  soothing." 


Chapter  XV 
Inez  and  the  Village  Blight 

IF  you  ask  me,  I'll  say  it  was  a  combination 
of  indoor  croquet  and  too  many  sausage-and- 
pancake  breakfasts.  Anyway,  something  went 
wrong  with  the  peace  and  quiet  of  our  ninth- 
floor  southern-exposure  home.  I  hardly  noticed 
it  at  first,  but  the  next  thing  I  knew  our  domestic 
happiness  was  on  the  rocks.  In  other  words, 
Inez  and  her  Uncle  Nels  had  worked  up  a  mutual 
grouch  that  left  them  barely  on  speaking  terms. 

And  yet  I  can  see  how  I  was  partly  to  blame, 
in  a  way;  for  when  Inez  came  to  me,  about  a 
week  before  Christmas  asking  what  in  the  world 
she  should  get  for  Uncle  Nels,  I  had  suggested 
games.  It  had  seemed  a  good  hunch  at  the  time, 
for  he's  a  simple-minded  old  boy,  you  know,  and 
what  he  lacked  most  was  amusement.  And  per- 
haps you  remember  how  we  found  him  sailing 
toy  boats  in  bathtubs  when  we  first  discovered 
him  here.  So  I  told  her  to  get  games. 

"What  kinda  games?"  Inez  demanded. 

"Oh,  any  kind  that  don't  make  too  much  noise 
239 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

or  clatter,"  says  I.  "Go  scout  around  the  toy 
shops." 

But  I  want  to  state  right  here  that  I  had  noth- 
ing like  croquet  in  mind.  Absolutely.  It's  a 
game  I  don't  care  for  at  all.  I  don't  know  who 
invented  it,  but  I'll  say  he  had  a  grudge  against 
his  own  kind  and  got  up  this  scheme  for  getting 
even.  Probably  he  was  the  village  pest,  for 
croquet  is  small-town  stuff.  It's  a  hick  vice,  a 
flag-station  blight. 

Our  cities  may  be  wicked,  with  their  gunmen 
gangs  and  dens  of  iniquity,  but  at  least  there's 
no  room  for  croquet  in  them.  And  only  a  person 
whose  childhood  has  been  embittered  by  the 
game  knows  what  the  city-bred  youngsters  has 
escaped.  I'm  not  airing  any  second-hand  preju- 
dice, either.  About  the  first  thing  I  remember 
was  hearing  Paw  and  Maw  Dodge  squabbling 
over  whose  turn  it  was  to  shoot.  That  was  out 
at  the  Clearing,  three  miles  from  Tamarack 
Junction.  Oh  yes,  even  there  we  had  a  croquet 
set.  We  always  had  one.  When  most  of  the 
balls  got  lost  and  all  the  mallet  heads  came  loose 
Paw  would  send  a  dollar  eighty-nine  to  a  mail- 
order house  and  get  another  outfit.  We  were 
too  poor  to  have  window  screens,  or  shoes  for 
all  the  kids,  or  fresh  meat  more  than  once  a 
month,  but  we  never  passed  a  whole  summer 

240 


INEZ  AND  THE  VILLAGE  BLIGHT 

without  the  equipment  for  getting  up  a  family 

row. 

Did  you  ever  watch  a  croquet  game  that  didn't 
end  in  a  row?  Say,  I  used  to  think  I  belonged 
to  the  scrappiest  family  in  Minnesota,  for  about 
three  times  a  day  during  the  croquet  season  a 
young  riot  would  break  out  in  our  front  yard 
and  before  it  was  settled  half  our  collection  of 
youngsters  would  have  to  be  spanked  and  put  to 
bed.  Being  the  oldest  of  nine  and  the  only  one 
of  the  first  crop,  I  was  generally  too  busy  wash- 
ing dishes  and  so  on  to  really  get  into  the  muss 
very  often.  Mostly  I  was  called  on  to  settle 
disputes  and  disarm  fractious  step-brothers  or 
half-sisters  who  threatened  to  run  amuck  with  a 
mallet,  so  if  I  have  any  disposition  left  it's  due 
to  the  fact  that  I  was  seldom  in  the  game  myself. 
I  used  to  wonder,  too,  if  they'd  all  grow  up  with- 
out killing  one  another. 

But  later  on,  as  I  grew  older  and  got  down  to 
the  Junction  oftener,  I  found  the  other  folks 
reacted  to  croquet  about  the  same.  I  noticed 
that  you  didn't  have  to  play  with  your  brothers 
or  sisters  to  get  scrappy  over  the  game.  Neigh- 
bors would  jaw  at  each  other  over  the  fine  points, 
and  even  the  Baptist  and  Methodist  ministers 
got  into  a  row  at  a  union  lawn  festival  and  didn't 
speak  to  each  other  for  months  afterward.  As 

241 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

I  remember,  one  of  'em  claimed  he'd  gone 
through  the  birdcage  wicket  fair  and  the  other 
insisted  that  he'd  hit  the  wire  and  bounced 
around  it.  Anyway,  the  debate  nearly  busted  up 
the  lawn  festival  and  if  the  Methodist  minister 
hadn't  been  moved  to  another  town  I  expect  the 
squabble  would  still  be  going  on. 

Just  what  there  is  about  knocking  painted 
wooden  balls  through  wire  hoops  that  will  bring 
out  all  the  pettiness  and  meanness  of  human  na- 
ture I  don't  know,  but  that's  the  way  it  works.  If 
a  town  can  get  big  enough  to  outgrow  croquet  it's 
all  right;  if  not,  there's  no  hope  for  it.  And  no 
matter  what  else  they  tell  you  about  the  small 
burgs,  that's  what  ails  Main  Street.  Croquet. 

So  when  Inez  brought  home  this  indoor  set 
I  shook  my  head.  "That's  one  game,"  says  I, 
"that  I  hoped  couldn't  be  played  except  on  a 
front  lawn.  And  here  some  wretch  with  a 
curdled  disposition  has  gone  and  made  it  an 
indoor  pastime." 

"Lotta  fun,  croquet,"  says  Inez.  "We  used 
to  play  it  at  the  Larsens,  back  home.  I  bet 
Uncle  Nels  has  played  it,  too." 

She  was  right.  Mighty  few  rubes  have  es- 
caped. And  while  Uncle  Nels  had  indulged  in 
very  little  else  but  hard  work  during  most  of  his 
horny-handed  career,  there  were  just  two  games 

242 


INEZ  AND  THE  VILLAGE  BLIGHT 

that  he  had  a  speaking  acquaintance  with.  One 
was  pitching  horseshoes,  the  other  was  this  vil- 
lage blight,  croquet.  He  seemed  tickled  to  pieces 
with  this  fancy  outfit  with  the  short-handled 
mallets,  bright-colored  balls,  and  wickets  with 
lead  bases  that  could  be  set  around  on  the  floor 
or  rug.  And  right  after  breakfast  Christmas 
morning  he  and  Inez  had  pushed  back  the  fur- 
niture in  the  living  room,  placed  the  wickets  and 
posts,  and  were  going  at  it  strong. 

At  ten-thirty  the  first  debate  opened  and  it  had 
been  under  way  for  fully  twenty  minutes  before 
I  was  called  in  as  referee.  Uncle  Nels  claimed 
that  when  his  ball  rolled  under  the  davenport  he 
had  a  right  to  lift  out  a  mallet's  length  without 
penalty,  while  Inez  insisted  that  he  must  play 
the  lie,  wherever  it  was.  And  they  wanted  me 
to  settle  the  point. 

"Nothing  doing,"  says  I.  "Half  my  unhappy 
childhood  days  I  spent  trying  to  lay  down  rules 
for  this  fool  game,  and  never  once  did  I  satisfy 
both  sides.  So  I'm  not  going  to  begin  again 
now.  Absolutely  not.  You'll  have  to  settle  your 
own  disputes." 

Well,  that  was  the  start.  From  then  on  I 
never  knew  what  minute  another  squabble  might 
break  loose,  and  with  every  fresh  one  I  was 
hoping  they'd  quit  the  game  and  let  me  chuck 

243 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

the  outfit  into  the  trash  can.  But  the  more  rows 
they  got  into  the  keener  they  seemed  to  be  to 
keep  on.  They'd  brag  to  me  about  how  clever 
they  were  getting,  the  wonderful  shots  they'd 
make,  and  how  many  wickets  they'd  run  without 
missing. 

Besides,  with  this  stormy  weather  we  were 
having,  there  was  nothing  for  either  of  'em  to 
do,  especially  during  the  forenoons.  Uncle  Nels 
would  get  out  after  luncheon  and  tramp  around, 
no  matter  how  bad  the  going  was  under  foot. 
Generally  Inez  did,  too.  And  evenings  there  was 
always  a  movie  show  for  'em  to  go  to.  But  their 
mornings  they  had  no  program  for,  so  they'd 
get  out  the  balls  and  mallets  and  go  to  it.  Uncle 
Nels  was  keeping  a  running  score  where  he  could 
mark  up  the  result  of  each  day's  games,  and  he 
was  dead  set  on  being  the  family  champion.  So 
was  Inez. 

If  they'd  had  a  book  of  rules  as  thick  as  a 
city  directory  and  a  Judge  Landis  on  the  side 
lines  to  give  off-hand  decisions  on  what  could  be 
done  and  what  couldn't,  the  tournament  might 
have  been  fought  to  a  finish.  But,  with  first  one 
and  then  the  other  protesting  a  play,  the  progress 
was  slow  and  uncertain.  And  then  one  day  Inez 
threw  her  mallet  into  the  corner  and  crashed  in 
where  I  was  having  breakfast,  announcing  that 

244 


INEZ  AND  THE  VILLAGE  BLIGHT 

she  wouldn't  play  with  Uncle  Nels  again.  The 
placid  look  was  gone  from  her  big  gray  eyes  and 
her  ears  were  pinked  up. 

"No  more!"  says  she.    "Never." 

"Good  job,"  says  I.  "I  hope  you  stick  to  it, 
for  I  sure  have  had  an  earful  of  your  squabbling. 
Say,  anyone  would  think  you  two  were  a  couple 
of  kids  in  a  back  lot." 

"But — but  Uncle  Nels,  he — he  cheats,"  de- 
clares Inez,  and  she  didn't  whisper  it,  either. 

"S-s-s-sh!"  says  I. 

It  was  tjoo  late,  though.  The  old  boy  was 
standing  in  the  door  and  he  heard.  "What  you 
say  I  do?"  he  demands. 

"You  say  you  hit  the  stake  when  you  don't," 
comes  back  Inez.  "You  cheat.  Yes,  lotta  times." 

"Say,  for  the  love  of  soup!"  I  breaks  in. 
"Don't  take  this  so  serious.  You  don't  really 
mean  that,  Inez." 

She  did,  though.  And  I  could  tell  by  the  hard 
glitter  in  those  pale  blue  eyes  of  Uncle  Nels 
that  at  last  he  had  his  Swedish  up. 

"Huh!"  says  he.  "So  that's  what  I  get  when 
I  give  you  good  home  and  fine  clothes  and  noth- 
ing to  do.  I'm  a  cheater,  hey?  All  right! 
We'll  see." 

Of  course,  I  looked  for  a  day  or  two  of  sulk- 
ing from  'em,  but  if  it  put  an  end  to  this  squab- 
17  245 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

bling  I  would  be  more  than  satisfied.  And  I 
lost  no  time  in  wishing  that  indoor  croquet  out- 
fit on  the  janitor.  I  wasn't  a  bit  surprised,  either, 
when  Uncle  Nels  failed  to  show  up  at  luncheon. 
He  had  shut  himself  in  his  room  and  for  a  while 
we  heard  him  rattling  things  around  in  there. 
Later  he  slipped  out.  And  at  dinner  time  he 
wasn't  back. 

"He's  mad,  Uncle  Nels,"  says  Inez,  who  had 
recovered  from  her  tantrum. 

"You've  made  a  good  guess,  Inez,"  says  I. 
"I'll  say  you  were  a  bit  rough  with  him,  too." 

It  wasn't  until  the  middle  of  the  next  fore- 
noon that  we  begun  to  be  real  worried.  Inez 
announces  that  Uncle  Nels  hadn't  had  his  break- 
fast. 

"Then  it's  time  he  was  called,"  says  I.  "Go 
give  him  a  rap." 

But  Inez  got  no  response  when  she  hammered 
on  the  door.  Then  she  rang  for  Annette,  the 
maid,  to  come  and  call  him.  More  silence.  So 
I  had  to  leave  my  coffee  and  eggs  and  have  a 
try  at  it.  But  no  reply  from  Uncle  Nels.  It  was 
only  when  I  started  to  shake  the  door  that  I 
found  it  was  unlocked,  and  one  glance  showed  us 
that  the  room  was  empty. 

"See!"  says  Inez,  pointing  to  the  bed.     "He 
don't  sleep  here  last  night." 
-  246 


INEZ  AND  THE  VILLAGE  BLIGHT 

"That's  so,"  says  I.  "And  look  at  that  empty 
wardrobe  and  those  bureau  drawers.  His  suit- 
case is  gone,  too.  Inez,  I  believe  he  has  flitted 
once  more." 

"Him?"  says  she.    "Oh,  he  come  back." 

I  thought  he  would,  too.  Why  not?  This 
was  the  only  home  the  old  boy  had,  and  it  was 
one  that  he  was  paying  a  good  big  rent  for. 
He  had  no  other  relative  in  the  city,  and  no 
friends  that  we  knew  about.  Of  course,  he  was 
bound  to  come  back  after  he'd  cooled  off.  Prob- 
ably he  had  gone  to  some  hotel  to  sulk  it  out. 

So  we  just  waited  for  him  to  get  over  his  fit 
and  come  sneaking  back.  Two  days,  three  days, 
a  week.  Inez  begun  to  have  regrets. 

"Maybe — maybe  he  did  hit  the  stake  that 
time,"  she  admits. 

"You're  a  trifle  late,  Inez,"  says  I.  "If  you'd 
said  that  while  the  big  debate  was  on  it  might 
have  helped." 

"I  didn't  know  he  was  gonna  get  so  mad," 
says  she. 

"Well,  you  weren't  in  such  an  amiable  mood 
yourself,"  I  suggests.  "I  don't  wonder  much, 
with  those  breakfasts.  Sausage  and  pancakes! 
And  then  sitting  around  the  house  all  the  fore- 
noon. That  would  ruffle  a  saint.  Anyway,  it 
was  no  preparation  for  indoor  croquet." 

247 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"I — I  tell  him  I'm  sorry  when  he  comes," 
says  Inez. 

It  was  the  same  afternoon  that  Annette  re- 
minded us  that  her  month's  wages  were  overdue. 
Then  came  the  building  agent  with  a  lease  re- 
newal for  Uncle  Nels  to  sign  and  I  found  that 
the  rent  for  the  apartment  had  been  paid  only 
until  the  end  of  the  month.  So  Inez  and  I  had 
a  serious  talk. 

"He  oughta  come  back  pretty  quick,  Uncle 
Nels,"  was  all  Inez  could  contribute. 

"Yes,  but  suppose  he  doesn't?"  I  asks. 

Inez  only  rolled  her  eyes. 

My  next  move  was  to  scout  through  his  room. 
Possibly  he'd  left  some  signed  checks  or  some 
cash  which  we'd  overlooked.  But  I  couldn't  dig 
up  anything  so  cheering.  What  I  did  find, 
though,  was  a  pamphlet  of  a  Swedish  steamship 
line  with  some  recent  sailing  dates  checked  off. 
Then  I  remembered  about  this  old  Swede  down 
in  the  furnace  room;  the  one  Uncle  Nels  had 
discovered  and  told  me  the  story  about.  You 
know?  He'd  married  the  girl  Uncle  Nels  had 
been  sweet  on  and  played  it  low  down  on  him  in 
other  ways.  And  they'd  sat  and  glared  at  each 
other  by  the  hour,  down  there  in  the  sub- 
basement.  Of  course,  the  girl  had  died  years 
ago.  But  hadn't  Uncle  Nels  said  something 

248 


INEZ  AND  THE  VILLAGE  BLIGHT 

about  going  back  to  that  little  Swedish  fishing 
village  ? 

Just  on  a  chance  I  called  up  the  steamship 
office  on  the  'phone.  Not  that  I  was  simple 
enough  to  ask  them  if  Uncle  Nels  had  booked 
a  passage  with  them,  for  I  knew  they  wouldn't 
tell  me  that.  My  line  was  that  I  was  sending  a 
steamer  basket  to  him  and  wanted  to  know  when 
it  should  reach  the  pier.  The  clerk  at  the  other 
end  of  the  wire  chuckled. 

"Better  send  it  parcel  post  to  Stockholm," 
says  he.  "Your  party  sailed  day  before  yester- 
day on  the  Ingenhaven." 

"Oh,  did  he?"  says  I. 

And  as  usual  Inez  don't  seem  to  get  the  full 
significance  of  the  bulletin  when  it's  sprung  on 
her. 

"By  Sweden  I"  says  she.  "How  foolish!  In 
winter  time,  too.  He  don't  come  back  for  long 
time,  eh?" 

"If  at  all,"  says  I. 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.  "Now  who  goes  to  the 
movies  with  me  nights?" 

"Listen,  Inez,"  says  I,  firm  but  patient;  "try 
to  get  it  through  your  head  what's  happened. 
This  trick  uncle  of  yours  has  left  you  flat.  He 
has  gone  away,  probably  for  good,  and  what's 
more  important,  he's  taken  his  check  book  with 

249 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

him.     If  you  want  to  know  the  worst,  you're 
stranded." 

Inez  stares  at  me  placid  for  a  while,  yanking 
her  gum  with  a  smooth,  easy  jaw  stroke.  Then 
she  remarks:  "You,  too,  Trilby  May.  He  leaves 
you  just  the  same  as  me.  Eh?" 

"I  don't  see  it,"  says  I.  "It  wasn't  me  that 
scrapped  with  him  over  croquet.  I  didn't  call 
him  a  cheat.  And  I'm  far  from  stranded.  Thank 
goodness,  I've  got  my  job." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  then,"  says  Inez. 

There  are  times  when  that  calmness  of  hers 
is  almost  maddening.  But  it's  no  use  talking 
rough  to  her. 

"Sure,  Inez,"  says  I.  "Everything  is  per- 
fectly lovely.  Only  here  we  are,  with  a  French 
maid  and  one  of  the  most  expensive  apartments 
in  New  York,  and  nothing  but  my  salary  to  feed 
to  the  bill  collectors.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it 
can't  be  done." 

It  doesn't  seem  to  discourage  Inez  a  bit.  She 
just  smiles  and  wags  her  head.  "I  get  a  job, 
too,"  says  she. 

"Yes?"  says  I.  "At  twenty  or  twenty-five  a 
week,  if  you're  lucky.  But  where  would  that  get 
us  ?  Say,  haven't  you  ever  figured  up  how  much 
a  month  this  big  apartment  was  costing  Uncle 
Nels?" 

250 


INEZ  AND  THE  VILLAGE  BLIGHT 

Inez  nods.  "Once  I  did,"  says  she.  "I  forget 
now.  Lotta  money.  Too  much.  We  can  move, 
can't  we?  Little  place.  Let's  go  hunt  one  up, 
eh?" 

And  here  I'd  been  planning  to  break  it  to  her 
gentle.  You'd  most  think,  too,  that  a  sudden 
change  like  this  would  be  some  jar  to  her.  Why, 
for  nearly  a  year  she'd  been  living  as  expensive 
as  a  bootlegger's  bride;  having  her  breakfast  in 
bed,  running  a  taxi  account  ad  lib.,  buying  any 
kind  of  clothes  she  took  a  fancy  to,  and  simply 
having  the  bills  sent  to  Uncle  Nels,  who  had  set- 
tled without  a  whimper.  It  had  been  months 
since  she  had  ever  done  up  her  own  hair.  Now 
she  sees  all  that  fade  out  with  not  even  a  shoul- 
der shrug. 

"Inez,"  says  I,  "you're  either  a  lot  simpler 
in  the  head  than  I  mistrusted,  or  else  you're  a 
better  sport  than  I've  had  you  rated.  Anyway, 
we'll  go  look  up  a  two-room  and  bath  joint." 

"We  could  go  back  to  boarding  house  on 
Fifty-seventh  Street,"  she  suggests. 

"The  prunery?"  says  I.  "Where  we  used  to 
be  so  happy  and  so  poor?  No,  not  that.  I've 
eaten  all  the  meals  I  care  to  in  that  basement 
dining  room.  Besides,  I  want  my  own  bathtub, 
and  if  we  can  afford  it  I'd  like  to  splurge  on  a 
kitchenette.  You're  not  such  a  poor  cook,  you 

251 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

know,  and  it's  just  possible  you'll  not  land  a  job 
right  away." 

So  I  paid  off  Annette,  notified  the  agent  that 
we  were  not  renewing  the  lease,  and  we  began 
to  look  for  new  quarters.  Maybe  you  know 
what  that  means  in  New  York,  especially  in  mid- 
winter. It's  no  cinch.  At  the  end  of  the  third 
day's  hunt  I  was  almost  willing  to  give  up  and 
take  any  old  thing  that  was  offered,  even  to  an 
inside  flat  over  a  garage.  And  then  the  faithful 
Barry  Platt  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Why  don't  you  take  Dicky  White's  studio?" 
he  asked.  "He's  quitting  art  and  going  back  to 
Utica  as  shipping  clerk  in  his  uncle's  factory, 
and  he  has  a  six  months'  lease  on  this  renovated 
loft  down  in  the  East  Twenties  somewhere.  It's 
in  rather  a  messy  neighborhood,  four  flights  up 
with  no  elevator;  but  there's  a  whaling  big  room, 
plenty  of  light,  a  bath  in  one  alcove  and  a  gas 
stove  in  another.  All  for  seventy-five  a  month, 
too." 

"Lead  me  to  it,  Barry,"  says  I,  "and  if  it's  all 
you  say  I — I'll — Well,  I  may  surprise  you." 

True,  Barry  had  omitted  to  mention  how  near 
the  Third  Avenue  L  this  so-called  studio  was,  or 
that  there  was  an  Armenian  cafe  on  the  ground 
floor,  an  artificial  flower  factory  on  the  second, 
and  a  varied  assortment  of  weird  enterprises  in 

252 


INEZ  AND  THE  VILLAGE  BLIGHT 

the  adjoining  lofts,  from  a  wigmaker  to  a  rug 
renovator.  But  when  we  found  how  cosy  Dicky 
White  had  made  his  section  of  the  top  floor,  and 
that  there  was  plenty  of  room  for  two  single 
beds  in  separate  corners,  and  an  east  window 
that  would  let  in  the  morning  sun,  we  made  a  bar- 
gain on  the  spot. 

Yesterday  we  moved  in  and  this  morning  we 
had  our  first  studio  breakfast.  I  had  sent  Inez 
out  early  for  milk  and  eggs  and  bread,  but  she 
was  fully  three-quarters  of  an  hour  getting  back 
with  them. 

"Don't  tell  me  you  got  lost,  Inez?"  says  I. 

"No,"  says  she.  "But  I  ask  the  lady  that 
bosses  the  flower  factory  where  to  go  and  she 
talks  a  lot.  Kinda  nice,  that  one.  An'  who  you 
think  runs  the  delicatessen  store  ?  Swedish  lady  I 
I  hafta  talk  with  her,  too.  An'  the  old  gentle- 
mans  on  the  floor  below  that  gives  violin  les- 
sons, he  helps  me  carry  up  the  things  and  say  he 
hopes  we  like  it  here.  I  guess  we  will,  too.  Eh, 
Trilby  May?" 

"We'll  do  our  best,"  says  I,  "but  if  you're 
going  to  get  chatty  with  everybody  in  the  neigh- 
borhood you'll  have  to  start  earlier  to  do  your 
marketing.  Now,  let's  get  busy  with  those  eggs." 

For  a  while  Inez  made  a  noise  like  a  cook  and 
inside  of  half  an  hour  we  sat  down  to  coffee,  eggs 

253 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

and  toast  at  a  cute  little  painted  table  in  a  square 
of  sunlight  that  was  bright  and  cheerful.  Not 
until  then  did  Inez  sketch  out  her  philosophy 
for  me. 

"By  Park  Avenue,"  says  she,  "nobody  speaks 
to  me." 

"You  forget  Mike,  the  doorman,"  I  suggests. 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.  "That  grafter !  All  he 
wants  is  tip.  But  the  others,  all  them  people 
that  we  go  up  and  down  in  the  elevator  with 
every  day,  they  don't  seem  to  see  us." 

"No,  they  were  not  what  you'd  call  a  folksy 
bunch,"  I  admits.  "But  then,  maybe  they  were 
such  swells  that  they  couldn't  afford  to  be.  We 
were  living  in  quite  a  classy  neighborhood  there, 
you  know.  All  rich  folks.  They  had  to  be." 

"I  know,"  says  Inez,  dipping  a  piece  of  toast 
thoughtful  in  her  coffee.  "And  we  was  rich,  too. 
It  ain't  so  much  fun  being  rich  when — when  you 
don't  know  how." 

"Eh?"  says  I,  staring  at  her. 

"If  you  try  to  be  swell,"  says  Inez,  "you  get 
lonesome." 

"Even  if  you  were  handicapped  by  more  or 
less  toast,  Inez,"  says  I.  "I  think  you've  said  a 
mouthful.  Pass  the  top  of  the  bottle,  will  you?" 


Chapter  XVI 
Inez  Says  It  With  Turkey 

IT  looks  like  I  was  giving  Inez  what  she  wants, 
which  still  seems  to  be  the  main  proposition. 
Anyway,  since  she  managed  to  croquet  herself 
out  of  a  rich  uncle  and  we've  had  to  shift  from 
a  swell  Park  Avenue  apartment  to  a  top-floor 
studio  loft  just  around  the  corner  from  Third 
Avenue,  Inez  has  shaken  off  that  peevish  disposi- 
tion she  was  acquiring  and  appears  to  enjoy  her 
gum  once  more. 

"It's  nice  here;  eh,  Trilby  May?"  she  re- 
marks the  other  day  after  she'd  finished  scrub- 
bing everything  about  the  place,  including  the 
floors,  windows  and  ceiling. 

"Quite  cozy,"  says  I.  "Of  course,  every  time 
an  L  train  goes  by  in  the  night  I  wonder  if  it 
isn't  going  to  graze  my  toes,  but  I  suppose  we'll 
get  used  to  that  before  long.  And  we  sure  have 
a  weird  looking  lot  of  neighbors." 

"Yes,"  admits  Inez.  "Some  of  'em  looks 
funny,  but  they're  all  nice  people.  Not  stuck 
up  or  anything." 

255 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Folksy,  eh?"  says  I. 

"Sure!"  says  Inez. 

It's  a  fact.  In  all  the  months  we  lived  on 
Park  Avenue  nobody  ever  dropped  in  at  8.15 
P.M.  to  borrow  a  pair  of  eggs,  or  at  noon  to  wish 
a  hunk  of  Gorgonzola  cheese  on  us,  or  at  mid- 
night to  tell  us  the  story  of  their  lives.  But  here, 
where  stores  and  factories  and  living  quarters 
were  jumbled  in  the  same  buildings;  where  al- 
most anyone  you  met  could  speak  at  least  three 
languages,  including  a  little  English;  where  the 
scent  of  garlic  hung  heavy  in  the  air  and  people 
stopped  in  doorways  to  chat — well,  here  it  was 
different. 

Small  town  stuff,  that's  what  it  was,  only  in 
place  of  a  Main  Street  there  was  the  block.  You 
spoke  of  it  as  "our  block."  Inez  hadn't  been 
here  three  days  before  she  sprung  that  on  me. 
And  she  meant  just  the  block  front  that  we  lived 
on.  The  other  three  fronts,  facing  on  different 
streets  and  avenues,  might  have  been  foreign 
countries,  as  far  as  she  knew.  In  fact,  they  were. 
For  instance,  to  the  west  of  us  was  Poland,  with 
a  Polish  club,  a  Polish  newspaper  and  stores 
with  Polish  signs  over  the  windows.  To  the 
east  was  Palestine,  with  a  kosher  market  and  a 
second-floor  synagogue.  On  the  south  we  were 
bounded  by  Bohemia.  Of  course,  it  was  only  a 

256 


INEZ  SAYS  IT  WITH  TURKEY 

fake  Bohemia,  so  called  by  the  colony  of  artists 
and  near-artists  who  lived  in  the  renovated  tene- 
ments with  tiled  and  stuccoed  fronts.  Our  back 
windows  looked  into  their  skylights. 

As  for  our  block  front,  it  was  a  near-East 
mixture,  with  Syrians  and  Armenians  in  the  ma- 
jority, but  with  a  sprinkling  of  almost  any  race 
you  could  name.  We  were  about  the  only  Amer- 
ican delegates,  so  far  as  I  could  discover. 

"Almost  makes  me  feel,"  I  told  Inez,  "that 
we  ought  to  have  passports,  or  something.  I'll 
bet  they  call  us  'those  foreigners,'  don't  they?" 

"They  don't  call  names,  them,"  insists  Inez. 
"All  nice  people." 

"That'll  help,  then,"  says  I,  "and  I'm  just  as 
ready  to  be  friendly  as  the  next  one." 

So  when  A.  Kourken,  the  rug  restorer  on  the 
floor  below,  slips  me  the  Armenian  for  "Good 
morning,  Dearie,"  I  smiles  back  at  him  and  sug- 
gests that  it's  a  rotten  day  outside.  Also  I  nods 
chummy  to  Mme.  Rosier  as  I  passes  the  door 
of  her  artificial  flower  establishment,  and  when 
Signer  Bardoni,  the  violin  teacher,  sweeps  off  his 
dusty  black  felt  hat  and  makes  me  a  low  bow  I 
stop  and  ask  him  if  he  has  many  pupils  this  winter. 

But  Inez  seems  to  get  on  with  our  neighbors 
even  better  than  that.  For  one  thing,  she  has 
more  time,  and  for  another  she's  simply  hungry 

257 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

to  gossip  with  some  one.  I  don't  think  I  quite 
realized  how  lonesome  she  used  to  get  there  in 
the  apartment,  with  no  one  but  Uncle  Nels  and 
the  maid  to  talk  to.  For  while  Inez  isn't  what 
you  might  call  a  fluent  converser  on  general 
topics,  when  it  comes  to  discussing  small  personal 
affairs  she  can  be  really  eloquent. 

"That  Dicky  White  who  live  here  and  who  go 
way  when  we  rent  his  rooms,"  says  Inez,  "he 
ain't  much  good." 

"No?"  says  I. 

"He  don't  speak  to  anybody  here,"  she  goes 
on,  "except  to  get  gay  with  some  of  the  girls 
what  make  flowers.  All  he  does  is  make  bluff 
he's  an  artist.  Don't  paint  much,  though.  Never 
got  up  until  noon,  and  nights  he'd  have  poker 
parties.  Once  they  had  a  big  row  and  somebody 
got  thrown  down  stairs  bumpety-bump.  All  such 
goings  on,  until  his  folks  don't  send  him  any  more 
money  and  he  have  to  go  back  to  Utica  and  take 
a  job  with  his  uncle.  Good  thing  for  him,  I 
guess." 

"Sounds  reasonable,"  says  I.  "But  how  did 
you  get  so  well  posted  on  Dicky's  affairs?" 

"Madame  Rosier,  she  tell  me  about  him," 
says  Inez.  "Nice  lady,  that  one.  Widow. 
French,  too.  She's  been  in  this  country  fifteen 
years.  But  not  all  time  running  flower  factory. 

258 


INEZ  SAYS  IT  WITH  TURKEY 

No.  Only  since  Mr.  Rosier  got  killed  in  the 
war.  He  was  chef  in  big  hotel,  making  big 
money,  and  they  had  fine  place  up  in  the  Bronx; 
little  flower  garden  out  front,  grapevine  in  back, 
piano  and  everything  elegant.  But  after  the  war 
was  going  on  two  years  he  had  to  go  back  and 
fight,  and  the  Germans  got  him.  Big  shell  came 
and  blew  him  up.  Nothing  but  little  pieces  left. 
She  showed  me  the  letter  from  his  captain.  I 
couldn't  read,  but  she  told  me  what  it  said. 
Got  out  his  picture,  too.  Then  she  cried.  I 
cried  some,  too." 

"What  a  nice,  comfy  time  you  two  must  have 
had,"  says  I. 

"Wouldn't  you  be  sorry  for  anybody  like 
that?"  demands  Inez.  "She  has  to  sell  her  nice 
place  in  the  Bronx  and  look  for  some  work. 
Lucky  she  knew  about  making  flowers.  She  did 
that  in  France  when  she  was  a  girl.  And  when 
she  first  went  to  work  here  she  was  just  one  of 
the  hands.  Pretty  soon  they  make  her  boss, 
though,  and  she  saves  until  she  buys  in  as  one 
of  the  firm.  She's  smart,  Madame  Rosier,  and 
sometime  when  she  gets  money  enough  she's 
gonna  go  back  to  France  for  good.  That's  why 
she  lives  in  one  little  room  off  the  factory  and 
don't  spend  much  for  clothes." 

"I  get  the  picture,  Inez,"  says  I.  "And  I 
259 


shall  feel  real  well  acquainted  with  her  after 
this.  Any  others  in  the  building  that  have  been 
so  confidential  with  you?" 

Inez  shakes  her  head.  "But  Madame  Rosier 
tells  me  about  the  rug  man,"  she  adds.  "That 
Armenian.  He  had  big  family  and  was  going 
to  send  for  'em  to  come  over,  but  the  Turks 
killed  'em  all.  Now  he's  lonesome  and  don't  care 
what  comes.  He  just  cleans  rugs  and  reads  over 
old  letters  that  he  got  before.  Too  bad,  eh?" 

"Some  tragedy,  I'll  say,  to  be  sketched  out  so 
simple,"  says  I.  "Did  you  shed  a  few  tears 
over  the  missing  Kourkens?" 

"No,"  says  Inez.  "But  I'm  sorry  for  him 
For  that  Signor  Bardoni,  too,  who  lives  across 
the  hall." 

"Go  on,  break  my  heart,"  says  I.  "What  dark 
shadow  fell  over  his  life?" 

"He  don't  tell  me  much,"  says  Inez,  "but 
yesterday  when  you  are  out  for  walk  and  I  am 
cooking  spaghetti  and  things  for  dinner  I  find 
him  standing  by  the  door  to  sniff  the  smell. 
Then  he  comes  in  and  shows  me  how  to  make 
that  sauce  I  put  on  it.  So  I  give  him  some  on 
a  plate  and  he's  awful  glad.  I  guess  he  don't  eat 
much  but  bread  and  cheese  and  hard  sausage. 
Too  poor.  But  he  says  he  was  big  man  in  Italy. 
Rich  and  everything.  Not  here,  though." 

260 


INEZ  SAYS  IT  WITH  TURKEY 

"Anyway,"  says  I,  "he's  a  picturesque  old 
ruin,  but  unless  I  have  more  details  of  his  past 
greatness  I'm  afraid  I  can't  spill  any  great 
amount  of  sympathy." 

I  couldn't  deny  that  he  looked  the  part,  espe- 
cially when  he  draped  that  rusty  black  cape 
over  his  stooped  shoulders  and  pulled  the 
wide-brimmed  old  hat  down  over  his  long  gray 
hair.  He  has  a  long  thin  nose,  like  an  eagle's 
beak,  a  pair  of  sad  brown  eyes  and  the  dull 
greenish  complexion  of  a  dill  pickle.  Person- 
ally I  don't  think  I'd  have  worked  up  much  in- 
terest in  Bardoni,  but  so  long  as  Inez  found  him 
interesting  I  couldn't  do  less  than  pretend  I 
did,  too. 

For  Inez  seemed  like  a  person  who'd  just 
escaped  from  a  long  term  in  an  isolation  ward, 
or  one  who'd  been  spending  a  year  or  two  on 
a  lonely  ranch.  She  made  friends  on  all  sides 
and  developed  a  sudden  mania  for  extending  the 
helping  hand  to  all  and  sundry.  The  first  thing 
I  knew  she  was  subbing  in  during  the  rush  hours 
at  the  delicatessen  store  for  her  friend  Mrs. 
Lindgren. 

"That  clerk,  he  get  sick,"  explains  Inez,  "and 
Miss  Lindgren  can't  make  up  all  those  sand- 
wiches at  noon  time.  No,  she  don't  pay  me.  I 
do  it  for  fun." 

18  261 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Strikes  me  as  an  odd  form  of  indoor  sport," 
says  I. 

"Oh,  it  ain't  so  bad,"  insists  Inez.  "I  see  every- 
body when  they  come  in,  and  Miss  Lindgren  she 
makes  jokes  with  'em,  and  we  cut  bread  and 
cheese  and  ham  like  everything.  Then  after- 
ward she  tells  me  about  where  she  live  in 
Sweden.  I  tell  her  about  Uncle  Nels,  too,  and 
she  say  he  ought  to  send  back  some  money  to 
me.  Maybe  she  have  her  brother  find  him  over 
there.  She's  nice,  Miss  Lindgren." 

I  couldn't  dispute  it.  Maybe  she  was.  From 
the  glimpses  I'd  had  of  her  as  I'd  passed  the 
store  I  should  have  classed  her  as  a  shrewd-eyed, 
middle-aged  female  with  a  bulgy  figure  and  thin 
faded  hair  done  up  in  a  doorknob  effect  on  top 
of  her  head.  But  then,  she  and  Inez  probably 
mis-used  English  in  the  same  way  and  had  much 
else  in  common. 

I  did  rather  gasp,  though,  when  Inez  first 
proposed  this  birthday  dinner  party  and  I  found 
she  had  all  these  freaks  on  her  list  of  guests  to 
be  invited.  Even  A.  Kourken. 

"But  whose  birthday?"  I  asked. 

"That  Signor  Bardoni's,"  says  she.  "It's 
next  Sunday,  and  you  don't  have  to  play  at  the 
theater  that  night.  He  tells  me  about  it  to-day. 
Sixty-nine  years  he  will  be.  And  only  think, 

262 


INEZ  SAYS  IT  WITH  TURKEY 

Trilby  May;  maybe  he  don't  have  anything  to 
eat  but  bread  and  cheese.  Ain't  it  a  shame, 
when  he  was  such  a  big  man  once?" 

"Well,  what's  the  proposition?"  says  I. 

Inez  is  so  excited  that  she  can  hardly  give  me 
her  plan,  but  I  gather  that  she  and  Mrs.  Lind- 
gren  and  Madame  Rosier  have  been  talking  it 
over  and  that  they've  decided  to  give  Signor 
Bardoni  a  big  surprise.  Each  one  has  agreed 
to  donate  something  for  the  dinner,  which  is  to 
be  held  here  in  our  studio  Sunday  night.  That 
is,  if  I  don't  object. 

"Far  be  it  from  me,  Inez,"  says  I,  "to  queer 
any  such  worthy  deed.  And  while  it  seems  to 
me  you're  going  to  have  an  odd  mixture  of  guests 
at  this  affair,  all  I  can  say  is  go  to  it.  Sure,  I'll 
be  there.  I'll  try  anything  once.  How  about 
inviting  Barry  Platt,  too?  He'll  get  either  a 
shock  or  a  thrill  out  of  it,  maybe  both." 

I  could  see  Inez  wasn't  crazy  about  having 
Barry,  but  she  doesn't  say  as  much.  "All  right," 
says  Inez,  "if — if  he  don't  laugh  at  'em." 

"I'll  warn  him,"  says  I.  "And,  anyway, 
Barry  wouldn't." 

So  for  the  next  three  days  Inez  was  busy  and 
mysterious,  dashing  down  stairs  at  intervals  to 
consult  in  whispers  with  Madame  Rosier,  or 
around  the  corner  to  get  the  advice  of  Mrs. 

263 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

Lindgren.  I  made  my  contribution  in  cash  and 
was  rewarded  by  a  bear  hug  from  Inez.  Then 
all  of  Sunday  afternoon  the  three  of  them  took 
turns  edging  in  and  out  of  our  kitchenette  and  the 
studio  reeked  with  appetizing  scents.  When  they 
began  to  bring  in  extra  chairs  and  a  big  work  table 
from  the  flower  factory  I  slid  out  and  joined 
Barry  for  a  long  walk  through  Central  Park. 

"We  must  be  back  by  six  o'clock,  though,"  says 
I,  "so  we  can  have  plenty  of  time  to  dress  for 
the  party." 

"Eh?"  says  Barry.  "Not  a  dinner  coat 
and  all?" 

"Certainly,"  says  I.  "Inez  insists  that  this 
must  be  a  swell  affair.  I'm  going  to  appear  in 
my  three  best  pieces." 

"He  must  be  some  guy,  this  Signer  Bardoni," 
says  Barry. 

Bardoni  couldn't  be  blamed  for  thinking  as 
much,  a  couple  of  hours  later,  when  he  was 
towed  into  the  studio  triumphant  by  Inez.  She 
hadn't  said  a  word  to  him  about  a  party,  just 
asked  him  to  come  in  and  have  a  bite  with  us 
about  seven.  I  expect  he'd  slicked  himself  up 
all  he  could,  for  his  mop  of  gray  hair  was 
brushed  back  fairly  neat,  he'd  had  a  shave,  and 
his  shiny  black  suit  was  more  or  less  free  from 
dust  if  not  from  grease  spots. 

264 


INEZ  SAYS  IT  WITH  TURKEY 

But  here  was  Inez  in  her  spiffiest  dinner  gown 
and  with  her  wonderful  hair  water-waved  to  the 
last  notch,  me  all  fussed  up  in  a  jade  green  frock 
to  match  my  gooseberry  green  eyes,  Barry  Platt 
in  his  soup-and-fish,  and  Madame  Rosier — But 
I  can't  throw  in  Madame  Rosier  offhand  like 
that.  I  need  to  take  a  full  breath  and  start  in 
fresh. 

She's  a  large,  imposing  old  girl  even  in  her 
working  clothes.  But  in  that  gorgeous  costume 
which  she  must  have  dug  from  the  bottom  of 
an  old  trunk — Well,  she  had  a  plush  horse  look- 
ing like  a  clipped  broncho.  Even  the  figured 
cretonne  window  hangings  looked  modest  beside 
her,  and  when  you  considered  the  huge  velvet 
hat  with  the  waving  plumes,  and  the  puffs  and 
ringlets  under  it,  and  the  bracelets  and  brooches 
and  rings  she  wore,  you  could  only  gasp.  To 
state  it  baldly,  the  Madame  was  a  knockout. 

As  for  Mrs.  Lindgren,  she  was  simply  vivid 
in  a  plaid  waist  and  a  striped  skirt.  She'd  jabbed 
a  rhinestone  pin  through  her  door-knob  hair 
knot  and  let  it  go  at  that.  A.  Kourken  had  done 
his  best,  too,  for  he'd  leased  a  real  braid-bound 
frockcoat  for  the  evening  and  blown  himself  to 
a  new  fez  as  bright  as  a  fire  hydrant. 

No  wonder  Signer  Bardoni  stood  blinking 
at  us.  Then  when  he  saw  the  table  all  gay  with 

265 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

artificial  cherry  blossoms  and  paper  jonquils, 
and  the  big  roast  turkey  at  one  end,  and  his 
name  on  the  place  card  in  front  of  it,  he  seemed 
to  get  the  drift.  For  a  minute  I  thought  the  old 
boy  was  going  to  break  down  and  do  the  sob  act, 
but  after  a  few  gulps  he  got  a  grip  on  himself. 

"You — you  have  done  zees  for  me?"  he  asked. 

"Sure!"  says  Madame  Rosier.  "Pour  vous, 
certainment.  It  is  your  birthdays,  is  it  not?" 

"Ah-h-h,  my  good  frien's !"  says  he,  spreading 
out  his  lean  hands.  "Eet  ees  too  much  for  a 
poor  old  mans.  I — I  have  not  the  speech  for 
thank  you  all,  but  I  can  say  that  I  feel  a  great 
joy — here,"  and  he  thumps  his  chest  to  indicate 
the  exact  spot. 

"Say,"  whispers  Barry,  "he's  got  Dave  War- 
field  beaten  a  mile." 

I  must  say,  though,  that  he  made  a  poor  job  of 
carving  that  turkey,  but  finally  Mrs.  Lindgren 
helped  out  with  some  expert  assistance  and  the 
feast  got  under  way.  I  doubt  if  Sherry  could 
have  sent  in  a  better  one,  for  there  were  all  sorts 
of  little  dainties  to  go  with  the  turkey.  Snails, 
for  instance,  roasted  in  a  pan  by  Madame  Ro- 
sier. And  a  nameless  Swedish  vegetable  that 
Mrs.  Lindgren  had  brought.  What  helped  most, 
though,  were  the  two  bottles  of  Chateau  Yquem 
which  the  Madame  must  have  found  when  she 

266 


INEZ  SAYS  IT  WITH  TURKEY 

dug  out  that  amazing  dress.  Barry  nearly 
caused  a  riot,  however,  when  he  called  for  a 
lump  of  ice  to  put  in  his  wine  glass. 

"Non,  non!"  roared  Madame  Rosier.  "I 
have  warm  it  for  two  hours  so  it  should  be 
chaud.  It  is  a  vintage  wine  that.  No  ice." 

"My  error,"  says  Barry,  grinning  across  at  me. 

Probably  she  knew  what  she  was  talking 
about,  but  I'll  say  that  when  you  let  this  Yquem 
stuff  run  a  temperature  it  certainly  has  a  kick  in 
it.  Bardoni  doesn't  seem  to  mind,  however. 
Maybe  he  was  too  busy  to  notice  that  his  glass 
was  being  refilled  oftener  than  that  of  anyone 
else.  By  the  time  we  got  to  the  patisserie  and 
coffee  he  was  talking  real  confidential  to  Inez. 
Evidently  he  was  telling  her  something  too 
thrilling  to  keep,  for  suddenly  she  makes  an  an- 
nouncement. 

"I  find  out  now,"  she  says,  "who  Signer  Bar- 
doni is.  He  is  the  great  Italian  music  composer 
— operas  and  all  that." 

"Is  it  true?"  demands  Madame  Rosier. 

Bardoni  nods  solemn.  "I  would  say  it  only 
to  my  good  frien's,"  says  he.  "But  in  Milano 
they  knew.  Yes,  the  whole  city.  The  King 
himself  has  come  to  hear  my  work,  and  he  pinned 
on  my  coat  a  decoration.  My  great  opera, 
though,  was  never  heard.  I  had  finished  that, 

267 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

eet  was  to  be  produce,  when  misfortune  came. 
I  am  accuse  of  being  a  Malatesta.  Me!  But 
an  enemy  tell  that  to  the  police.  They  find  pa- 
pers he  had  put  in  my  house.  I  am  arrest,  placed 
in  prison.  Then  my  friends  arrive.  They  make 
for  me  an  escape,  hide  me  on  a  steamer,  and  say 
I  must  go  to  America.  Ten  years  I  am  here,  and 
all  the  time  I  try  to  have  my  great  opera  produce. 
But  no.  In  zees  country  there  is  no  room  for  the 
opera  of  Italy.  So  in  my  little  room  here  I  go 
hungry  and  when  I  am  most  sad  I  take  my  old 
violin  and  play  the  great  music — to  myself." 

Say,  he  almost  had  me  choked  up.  Even 
Barry  was  staring  sober  at  him.  As  for  Madame 
Rosier,  she  made  no  bones  about  wiping  away 
the  tears. 

"Ah,  my  poor  friend,  how  unjust  is  fate  I" 
says  she.  "But  stop!  Attendez  moi,  Signer. 
To  us  you  must  play.  Quick  I  Your  violin,  your 
music.  Now  we  shall  hear  it." 

"Sure,  sure !"  echoes  Inez  and  Mrs.  Lindgren. 

So,  after  a  little  more  arguing,  Bardoni  goes 
to  his  room  and  brings  out  his  old  violin. 

"A  Raditzi,  true  genuine,"  says  he,  patting 
the  instrument.  "I  bring  eet  on  the  steamer, 
with  little  else.  And  now,  the  duet  from  the 
first  act!" 

I'm  no  judge  of  such  things,  but  it  sounded 
268 


INEZ  SAYS  IT  WITH  TURKEY 

like  the  real  thing  to  me.  It's  a  catchy  sort  of 
piece,  and  the  old  boy  played  it  with  a  lot  of  zip 
and  flourishes.  Anyway,  I  was  impressed.  So 
were  the  others.  They  applauded  wildly.  All 
but  Barry.  He  was  smiling  knowing  when  I 
nudged  him.  Then  he  whispered  something  be- 
hind his  hand. 

"Eh?"  says  I. 

"From  'Rigoletto,'  "  says  he.  "Got  his  nerve 
with  him,  hasn't  he?" 

"You  don't  mean,"  says  I,  "that  the  old  boy 
is  putting  something  over  on  us?" 

"Absolutely,"  says  Barry. 

Of  course,  we  didn't  give  him  away.  He  was 
having  too  good  a  time,  and  so  were  the  others. 
Inez  was  positively  beaming.  So  was  Madame 
Rosier.  She  toasted  Signer  Bardoni  in  the  last 
of  the  wine  and  made  a  little  speech  assuring 
him  that  some  day  his  genius  would  be  discov- 
ered and  that  once  more  he  would  be  rich  and 
famous.  So  the  party  ended  late  and  was  voted 
a  great  success. 

Needing  a  little  fresh  air,  I  told  Barry  to  wait 
until  I  slipped  on  a  coat  and  hat  and  I'd  walk  a 
few  blocks  with  him.  We  had  stopped  in  the 
lower  hallway  while  Barry  lighted  a  cigarette 
when  we  heard  footsteps  behind  us.  It  was 
Bardoni. 

269 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Excuse,"  says  he,  "but  I — I  could  not  sleep 
until  I  had  spoken  again." 

"Yes?"  says  Barry. 

"That  which  I  played,"  went  on  Bardoni. 
"You  know,  eh?" 

"Couldn't  help  it,"  says  Barry.  "It's  an  old 
favorite  of  mine." 

"I — I  am  shamed,"  says  Bardoni,  "to  tell 
such  lies  to  frien's  who  have  been  so  kind.  But 
eet — eet  was  the  wine.  Eet  get  in  my  head,  and 
make  me  think  I  have  compose  great  opera. 
Yes,  before  I  have  said  I  was  big  man  back  in 
Milano.  Me,  who  only  played  in  cheap  wine 
rooms.  Ah,  it  was  wrong  to  do." 

"And  all  that  about  the  Malatesta,  and  get- 
ting out  of  jail  and  escaping  on  the  steamer?" 
says  Barry.  "Was  that  fiction,  too?" 

"Not  everything,"  says  Bardoni.  "Me,  I 
was  friend  to  the  Malatestas.  I  have  to  run 
away.  But  the  great  opera — I  don't  write  him, 
never.  Just  make  him  up  in  my  mind.  Eet  was 
that  wine  which  was  warm.  Yes.  You  must 
forgive." 

"That's  the  easiest  thing  I  do,"  says  Barry. 
"If  I'd  had  as  much  of  that  Chateau  stuff  as  you 
got  away  with  I  might  have  told  a  few  fairy 
tales  myself." 

"And  you,  Mees  Dodge,"  says  Bardoni,  turn- 
270 


INEZ  SAYS  IT  WITH  TURKEY 

ing  to  me.  "You  will  not  tell  your  so  kind  sis- 
ter, eh?" 

"Never  a  word,"  says  I.  "This  is  the  first 
real  unselfish  evening  Inez  has  had  in  a  year, 
and  I  wouldn't  spoil  it  for  a  farm.  Good  night, 
Signer.  I  guess  we've  all  enjoyed  your 
birthday." 

And  with  that  the  old  boy  climbed  back  up- 
stairs. 

"Rummy  old  scout,  eh?"  says  Barry. 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "An  Italian,  too.  But 
quite  as  human  as  if  he'd  been  born  in  Minnesota, 
or  Utica,  N.  Y.  I'm  glad  we  gave  him  such  a 
good  time,  too.  I  almost  wish  I'd  thought  of  it 
myself." 


Chapter  XVII 
A  New  Slant  On  Inez 

AsfD  I  thought  I  knew  all  about  Inez,  too, 
from  her  taste  in  gum  to  the  quirks  in  her 
disposition.  I  would  have  made  a  stab  at  fore- 
casting just  how  she'd  be  liable  to  react  under 
almost  any  conditions,  even  to  giving  her  very 
words  if  she  found  a  burglar  under  the  bed  or  a 
hairpin  in  the  soup.  I  had  an  idea  I  could  read 
the  thoughts  behind  her  big  gray  eyes  and  guess 
what  she'd  do  next. 

But  it  can't  be  done.  No.  The  only  real  true 
slant  on  life  that  I'm  sure  of  now  is  that  human 
nature  is  too  complicated  for  one  person  to  have 
more  than  a  sketchy  notion  of  another,  no  matter 
how  close  they've  been  or  for  how  long.  And  I 
wouldn't  bar  brothers  and  sisters,  mothers  and 
daughters,  or  married  couples  who've  had  their 
silver  wedding. 

Which  is  more  or  less  tied  up  to  what's  hap- 
pened to  us  within  the  last  few  days.  It  began 
when  I  held  off  telling  Inez  the  poor  news  that 
I'd  brought  home  from  the  theater  the  night 

272 


A  NEW  SLANT  ON  INEZ 

before.     I  figured  that  she  was  bound  to  be  a 
bit    panicky    over  it,  so  I  waited    until    after 
luncheon  and  then  sprung  it  on  her  easy.     She 
gave  me  the  opening  by  asking  if  it  wasn't  nearly 
time  for  me  to  start  for  the  matinee. 
"No  more  matinees,  Inez,"  says  I. 
"Eh?"  says  she,  turning  her  head,  but  keep- 
ing right  on  stacking  the  luncheon  dishes. 

"Not  of  The  Prince  and  the  Flapper,'  any- 
way," says  I.  "Nor  evening  performances 
either." 

"What  for?"  she  asks. 

"Because  it's  been  taken  off,"  says  I.    "We've 

all  seen  it  coming;  that  is,  everyone  but  Mother 

Bates,  who  never  sees  anything  except  that  her 

gray  hair  needs  another  henna  dip.    We  didn't 

believe  the  crash  was  quite  so  near,  though.  But 

with  a  week  of  rotten  weather,  and  the  houses 

getting  slimmer  and  slimmer— Well,  I  suppose 

Ames  Hunt  got  sick  of  paying  out  more  than  he 

was  taking  in.    He's  a  sporty  manager,  all  right ; 

but  he's  a  shifty  one,  too.    So  last  night  he  made 

us  a  little  speech,  gave  us  all  a  full  week's  salary, 

and  said  he  hoped  that  next  time  we'd  all  edge  in 

on  a  piece  that  would  have  a  two-season  run. 

And  that's  the  sad,  sad  story." 

Inez  stares  at  me  for  a  full  minute,  while 
the  news  trickles  down  through  the  bone.    Then 

273 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

she  asks:  "You — you  lose  your  job,  Trilby 
May?" 

"To  put  it  crudely,  yes,"  says  I.  "As  The 
Flapper  I've  flapped  by  last  flap." 

"But — but  you  can  be  talk  actress  at  some 
other  theater,  eh?"  she  suggests. 

"Probably  not,"  says  I.  "For  one  thing,  too 
many  houses  have  gone  dark,  or  are  going  that 
way  soon;  and  for  another,  I'm  not  sure  that  I'm 
such  a  whale  of  an  actress  anyway.  My  making 
good  in  this  piece  of  Barry's  was  rather  a  fluke, 
you  know,  and  the  other  managers  haven't  been 
begging  me  to  sign  contracts.  So  I  guess  it's 
just  a  case  of  being  at  liberty  for  me." 

Inez  pours  the  hot  water  into  the  dishpan 
thoughtful,  after  which  she  remarks:  "I  lose 
my  rich  uncle,  you  lose  your  job." 

"And  here  we  are,"  says  I. 

"What  you  gonna  do?"  demands  Inez. 

"Not  a  blessed  thing  for  two  whole  weeks," 
says  I.  "I'm  going  to  lay  off,  not  even  think. 
I'm  going  to  shed  no  tears  for  the  past,  or  take 
any  scared  peeks  at  the  future.  I'm  not  going 
within  a  block  of  any  theater,  or  even  walk 
through  Times  Square.  Probably  I  shall  gawp 
into  all  the  Fifth  Avenue  show  windows  one  day 
and  prowl  through  the  East  Side  pushcart  mar- 
ket the  next.  One  afternoon  I'm  going  to  spend 

274 


A  NEW  SLANT  ON  INEZ 

up  at  Bronx  Park  watching  the  polar  bears  duck 
each  other;  for  next  to  half-grown  pigs  I  think 
polar  bears  are  true  comedians.  Also  I  mean 
to  hang  around  some  dock  and  see  an  ocean  liner 
pull  out,  and  walk  the  whole  length  of  Mulberry 
Street  the  first  fine  afternoon  that  comes  along. 
That's  equal  to  a  trip  to  Italy  and  it  doesn't  cost 
a  cent.  Outside  of  that  I  shall  water  the  gera- 
niums in  our  window  box  and  try  my  luck  at 
making  onion  soup.  Restful  program,  isn't  it?" 

Inez  doesn't  say,  but  for  the  next  few  minutes 
she  handles  the  dish  mop  absent-mindedly,  as  if 
her  thoughts  were  centered  on  something  utterly 
remote  from  our  kitchenette  sink.  Finally  she 
comes  out  with  it. 

"Somebody  gotta  work,  ain't  they?"  she  de- 
mands. 

"You  mean  of  us  two,  I  suppose?"  says  I. 
"Quite  so.  Much  as  the  neighborhood  may 
appreciate  having  us  here,  and  thick  as  you  are 
with  Mrs.  Lindgren  at  the  delicatessen  store,  we 
tan  hardly  buffalo  the  landlord  or  the  grocer 
so  they'll  forget  to  send  in  their  bills.  But  I've 
got  a  cash  reserve  that  will  carry  us  along  for  a 
while.  So  why  worry?" 

"Huh !"  says  Inez.  "All  right  for  you.  Me, 
I  get  a  job." 

Which  starts  a  long  but  friendly  debate.  I 
275 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

tried  to  show  Inez,  without  stating  it  too  raw  or 
hurting  her  feelings,  that  she's  never  been  much 
of  a  go-getter  when  she's  tried  on  her  own  hook. 
I  reminded  her  gentle  that  I'd  always  been  the 
one  who  had  gone  out  and  rustled  something  that 
would  connect  us  with  a  pay  envelope,  and  I  hope 
I  merely  hinted  that  the  art  of  grabbing  a  good 
job,  when  the  grabbing  was  poor,  called  for  a 
certain  brand  of  rapid-fire  dome  work  such  as 
she'd  never  been  especially  noted  for.  . 

"Just  let  things  ride  for  a  little  while,"  says 
I,  "until  I've  had  a  good  rest,  and  then  I'll  tackle 
this  work  proposition  for  both  of  us." 

Inez  shakes  her  head.  "You  think  I'm  no 
good,  eh?"  says  she. 

"Not  at  all,  Inez,"  says  I.  "You're  a  wonder- 
ful girl.  But  crashing  into  commerce  and  picking 
out  something  soft  hasn't  been  your  long  suit. 
They'll  look  you  over,  note  how  husky  you  are, 
and  the  next  thing  you  know  you'll  be  signed  up 
for  hard  work  at  long  hours  and  poor  pay. 
Haven't  anything  in  mind,  I  suppose?" 

"Sure !"  says  Inez.  "I  see  Annette  the  other 
day.  "She  got  swell  job." 

"But  she's  a  trained  lady's  maid,"  says  I. 
"You  wouldn't  want  to  go  in  for  domestic  serv- 
ice, I  hope." 

"Annette,  she  ain't  maid  any  more,"  says  Inez. 
276 


A  NEW  SLANT  ON  INEZ 

"She's  in  that  Maison  Noir,  up  by  Fifty-seventh 
Street,  and  all  she  does  is  wear  elegant  things — 
dresses  and  opera  robes  and  fur  capes — to  show 
off  to  rich  ladies,  all  day  long." 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "A  modiste's  mannequin,  eh? 
Well,  Annette  could." 

"Good  pay,  too,"  goes  on  Inez.  "I  like  to  do 
that.  I'm  gonna  see." 

"Go  to  it,  then,"  says  I.  "If  you  can  land 
anything  like  that  I  shall  have  only  myself  to 
look  out  for.  But  hadn't  you  better  let  me " 

"No,"  says  she,  decided.  "You  get  rested. 
I  been  loafin'  long  enough.  I  get  my  own  job. 
To-day  I'm  gonna  go  there." 

And  as  soon  as  she  could  slip  into  a  plain  black 
work  dress  she  started,  chirky  and  ambitious. 
Two  hours  later  she  came  back,  a  beaten  look 
in  her  gray  eyes  and  a  sullen  droop  to  her  jaw. 

"You  needn't  tell  me,  Inez,"  says  I.  "I  can 
guess.  The  boss  of  the  Maison  Blanc  turned 
you  down." 

"I  don't  see  the  boss  at  all,"  says  Inez.  "Just 
snippy  young  thing  with  made-up  face  and  bad 
eyes.  She  turn  her  nose  up  and  say  they  don't 
need  anybody.  Won't  let  me  see,  boss,  either. 
She  says  he's  too  busy  and  that  I  wouldn't  do, 
anyway.  Says  I'm  too  fat.  The  fresh  thing! 
I  could  have  slapped  her  on  the  face." 
19  277 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Tut,  tut,  Inez !"  says  I.  "Don't  go  getting 
your  Swedish  up.  What  else  could  you  expect, 
breaking  in  casual  like  that?  I  don't  suppose 
you  even  made  a  date  with  Annette  to  tow  you 
in  to  the  proper  party?" 

She  admits  that  she  hadn't. 

"Well,  that's  where  you  made  your  big  mis- 
take," says  I.  "Now  if  I'd  been  after  a  job  there 
I  should  have  planned  out  my  campaign  in  ad- 
vance. I'd  have  found  out  who  to  ask  for,  what 
was  the  best  way  of  bracing  'em,  and  so  on. 
Finesse,  Inez!  Diplomacy!  Speed  work  with 
the  little  old  bean.  That's  what's  needed  and 
what  you  lack." 

"Oh,  is  that  so!"  says  Inez.  "I  ain't  so  smart 
as  Annette,  eh?" 

"That  doesn't  follow,"  says  I.  "Annette  may 
have  gotten  in  through  a  friend,  or  perhaps  she's 
done  that  sort  of  thing  before.  But  I'll  bet  she 
didn't  just  drift  in  the  front  door  and  state  her 
case  to  the  first  person  she  met.  She's  too  clever 
for  that." 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.  "I  guess  I  can  think  up 
things,  too." 

I  wanted  to  ask  her  "What  with?"  but  I  held 
it  back.  Even  if  you  do  believe  it,  it's  hardly 
friendly  to  suggest  that  anybody  has  nothing  but 
hair  above  the  eyebrows.  I  couldn't  help  chuck- 

278 


A  NEW  SLANT  ON  INEZ 

ling  now  and  then  the  next  day  or  two,  when  I'd 
find  Inez  staring  blank  at  the  ceiling  and  her  lips 
moving  without  making  a  sound.  For  I  knew  she 
thought  she  was  thinking,  and  when  Inez  cere- 
brates deep  like  that  she  simply  has  to  go 
through  the  motions  of  speech.  She  does  the 
same  when  she's  reading  to  herself.  And  she's 
one  of  those  persons  who  always  say  over  the 
titles  at  a  movie  play. 

Of  course,  I  could  guess  she  was  trying  to  plan 
out  some  way  of  getting  that  job,  but  what  vague 
schemes  were  milling  around  under  that  pile  of 
wheat-colored  hair  I  couldn't  tell.  I  was  sure 
they  would  be  entertaining  if  she  would  only 
sketch  'em  out  to  me.  Inez  wouldn't,  however, 
even  when  I  gave  her  a  good  lead. 

Then  here  the  other  day  she  seems  to  veer 
off  on  an  entirely  new  tack.  All  the  forenoon 
she'd  been  busy  digging  into  her  trunk  and  lay- 
ing out  some  of  the  flossiest  clothes  she  owned — 
the  ones  she'd  bought  so  free  when  her  Uncle 
Nels  was  on  hand  to  pay  the  bills.  Next  she 
gets  out  the  electric  iron  and  starts  in  on  a  press- 
ing and  cleaning  orgie  that  lasts  until  after 
luncheon.  I  noticed,  too,  that  she'd  put  a  fresh 
water-wave  in  her  hair  and  was  doing  it  up  the 
way  Annette  used  to  fix  it  when  we  were  living 
on  Park  Avenue.  But  I  asked  no  questions  until 

279 


I  came  back  from  a  walk  and  found  her  cos- 
tumed as  if  for  a  tea  dance  at  the  Plutoria — 
best  hat,  furs,  pearl  necklace  and  everything. 
There's  no  denying,  either,  that  when  Inez  is 
well  dressed  she's  an  impressive  looking  creature. 
Rather  a  stunner,  too;  especially  in  black  when 
that  wonderful  complexion  of  hers  gets  a  chance. 
I  had  to  stop  and  gaze  admiring. 

"You're  a  knockout,  Inez,"  says  I.  "But 
who's  giving  the  party?" 

"No  party,"  says  she.  "I — I'm  gonna  go 
shoppin'." 

"Ouch!"  says  I.  "Shopping!  You're  crazy. 
This  is  no  time  to  go  buying  things,  with  our 
finances  what  they  are.  Have  a  heart." 

"Maybe  I  don't  buy  anything,"  says  Inez. 
"Just  shop.  But  I  need  some  money  for  taxi 
cab." 

"But  how  foolish,  Inez!"  says  I.  "Splurging 
on  taxi  fares  when  we  don't  know  when  either 
of  us  will  be  earning  a  dollar  again !" 

"Ah,  don't  be  tightwad !"  she  protests.  "And 
how  can  I  walk  far  in  such  things?" 

True  enough,  she  has  on  her  newest  high- 
heeled  pumps  and  her  choicest  nude  silk  hose. 
So  I  staked  her  to  a  couple  of  dollars,  which  she 
stows  in  the  gold  mesh  purse  that  she'd  kidded 
her  Uncle  Nels  into  buying  for  her  birthday, 

280 


A  NEW  SLANT  ON  INEZ 

and  off  she  went  without  telling  me  where  or 
why. 

My  best  guess  was  that  Bill  Hart,  or  some 
other  movie  hero,  was  to  appear  in  person  at 
some  picture  theater  and  that  Inez  had  gone  to 
worship  in  what  seemed  to  her  a  fitting  costume. 
Or  else  she'd  heard  of  some  friend  from  Duluth 
being  in  town  and  meant  to  pay  a  call  in  state. 

So  I  tidied  up  the  studio  and  sat  down  to  wait. 
At  5  o'clock  she  hadn't  come  in,  nor  at  half  past. 
At  6  I  started  in  to  get  dinner  and  I  had  things 
nicely  under  way  when  back  she  came.  I  could 
see  at  a  glance,  too,  that  it  was  a  different  Inez. 
She  had  her  chin  up  and  there  was  a  confident 
look  in  her  eyes. 

"For  the  love  of  soup,"  says  I,  "who  have  you 
been  vamping?  Not  Doug.  Fairbanks?" 

"Me?"  says  Inez.  "No,  I  don't  vamp  no- 
body. I  been  to  see  about  gettin*  a  job." 

"Where?"  I  demands. 

"At  that  Maison  Noir,"  says  she. 

"Oh !"  says  I.  "Did  you  get  past  the  snippy 
young  person  this  time?" 

"Did  I  ?"  says  Inez.  "You  ought  to  see.  She 
opens  the  door  for  me  and  almost  breaks  her 
neck  bowin*  so  low.  She  don't  know  me  at 
all,  that  one.  And  when  I  ask  for  the  boss  she 
says  'Oui,  oui,  Madame!  Certainment I  Toot 

281 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

sweet.'  Takes  me  upstairs  to  swell  parlor  right 
of.'1 

"And  then?"  I  urges. 

"I  see  him,  all  right,"  says  Inez.  "Funny 
Frenchman,  with  cute  little  black  moustache  and 
rouge  on  his  face.  I  guess  he  wears  corsets,  too. 
But  he's  nice  to  me;  awful  nice." 

"Even  when  you  braced  him  for  a  job?"  I 
asked. 

"I  don't,"  says  Inez.  "I  tell  him  I  like  to  see 
dinner  dresses  like  some  friends  of  mine  get 
there.  Maybe  opera  wraps,  too.  And  say,  you 
should  have  been  there,  Trilby  May.  It — it 
was  like  a  show.  He  makes  me  sit  in  big  chair 
with  tall  back  and  cushion  under  my  feet.  Then 
he  rings  a  bell  and  in  come  that  snippy  girl  with 
something  to  drink  in  a  glass  and  cigarettes  with 
gold  ends." 

"You  didn't  go  that  far,  did  you,  Inez?"  I 
asks. 

"Sure  I  did,"  says  she.  "It  was  reg'lar  drink, 
too.  Make  me  feel  like  I  don't  care  for  any- 
thing. I  smoke  cigarette,  too.  The  Mister  Le- 
fleur — that's  his  name,  Lefleur — he  claps  his 
hands  and  somebody  pulls  back  velvet  curtains 
from  little  stage.  Next  he  turns  on  lotta  lights 
and  those  girls  come  walkin'  on  grand  and 
wiggly,  one  after  the  other.  Every  time  he  claps 

282 


A  NEW  SLANT  ON  INEZ 

his  hands  comes  a  new  one.  And  such  elegant 
dresses  they  had  on!  All  right  from  Paris. 
Mister  Lefleur  says  so.  He  stands  by  me  and 
whispers  in  my  ear  like  he  was  tellin'  secrets, 
tellin'  me  what  swell  dresses  they  are,  and  how 
nice  I'd  look  in  some,  and  how  the  others 
wouldn't  do  for  me  at  all.  He  don't  say  what 
they  cost,  though.  I  ask  about  one  or  two  and 
he  just  hunches  his  shoulders  and  says:  Touff, 
Madame.  Zat  we  shall  arrange  satisfactory.' 
So  I  don't  ask  any  more,  but  just  watch.  And 
when  I  see  some  I  like  that  he  thinks  will  do  for 
me  he  has  the  girl  come  where  I  am  and  turn 
'round  and  'round.  Then  I  feel  the  goods,  and 
put  my  head  on  one  side  and  say  it  ain't  just 
what  I  want.  Huh!" 

"I  know,"  says  I.  "With  that  grand  duchess 
air  of  yours?  Well,  Inez,  that's  one  way  of  get- 
ting hunk  with  an  establishment  that  had  turned 
you  down.  That  was  your  big  idea,  I  suppose?" 

"I  ain't  so  silly,"  protests  Inez.  "Lotta  ladies 
do  that.  But  me,  I  do  that  so  I  can  see  the  boss. 
After  I  don't  buy  any  dresses  he  has  'em  come 
in  with  opera  wraps  on.  Such  swell  ones — white 
fur  on  collars  and  cuffs  and  all  like  rosebuds  in- 
side. But  them  girls  is  so  slim  and  skinny. 
Some  of  'em  half  portions,  too.  They  look 
smothered  in  them  elegant  things.  I  laugh  and 

283 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

tell  Mister  Lefleur,  'Why  you  don't  have  one 
big  girl  to  show  'em  right?'  I  says.  'Not  all 
lady  customers  are  little,  like  that.  They  can't 
tell  how  they'd  look.'  And  him,  he  don't  think 
of  that  before.  He  says  it  is  true  and  asks  will 
I  try  on  one  of  the  wraps.  You  bet  I  do.  And 
when  I  walk  around  with  my  head  up  and  my 
shoulders  swingin'  slow  Mister  Lefleur  he  lets 
on  he's  tickled  to  pieces.  He  says  I  am  like  a 
lady  of  the  Empire  and  that  I  must  buy  that 
wrap.  It  would  be  a  crime  if  I  didn't." 

"And  then,"  says  I,  "you  were  up  against 
it,  eh?" 

"Not  so  much,"  says  Inez.  "I  know  what  to 
tell  him.  I  got  it  all  thought  out.  'No,'  says  I, 
'I  couldn't  buy  anything  so  expensive  until  my 
rich  uncle  comes  back  from  Sweden.'  'Too  bad,' 
says  Mr.  Lefleur.  'I  hope  he  comes  back  soon.' 
Then  I  tell  him  maybe  he  will,  but  that  he's  a 
cheapskate  uncle  at  times  and  I  gotta  get  square 
with  him  for  runnin'  off  and  not  leavin'  me  money 
enough  for  what  I  want.  'I  know  what  would 
make  him  mad,  too,'  I  tells  Mister  Lefleur. 
'What?'  he  wants  to  know.  'If  he  should  come 
back  and  find  I  was  workin'  for  you  as  model,'  I 
says.  'Mais  ouiP  says  he,  rubbin'  his  hands. 
'It  would  be  good  joke  on  him,  and  the  Maison 
Noir  would  have  such  a  model  as  no  other  estab- 

284 


A  NEW  SLANT  ON  INEZ 

lishment  in  town.  Why  don't  you  do  it, 
Madame?  Only  for  afternoons  I  would  ask 
you  to  come.  Please !'  Then  I  shakes  my  head. 
'It  would  be  lotta  fun,'  I  tells  him,  'but  lotta 
trouble,  too.  And  you  wouldn't  want  to  pay 
enough.'  At  that  he  waves  his  hand  grand  and 
lifts  up  on  his  toes.  He  says  the  Maison  Noir 
can  pay  what  it  likes.  'Sixty  dollars  a  week?' 
I  asks.  'Oui,  Madame,'  he  says.  'Certainment! 
You  will  come,  eh?'  And  me,  I  tell  him  I  come 
to-morrow." 

After  which  Inez  throws  her  chin  back  and 
lets  loose  one  of  those  rare  Minnesota  hee-haws 
of  hers,  while  I  simply  stand  there  and  gawp 

at  her. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Inez,"  says  I, 
"that  you've  gone  and  worked  a  joint  like  the 
Maison  Noir  for  a  sixty-dollar  part-time  job?' 

Inez  nods.  "Mister  Lefleur,"  says  she,  "he 
says  I  must  sign  contract  for  six  months.  He's 
a  wise  guy,  that  Frenchman.  I  might  wanna  go 
back  with  my  rich  uncle,  eh?" 

And  once  more  Inez  rattles  the  window  panes 
with  her  merriment. 

"Then  I've  got  to  hand  it  to  you,  Inez,"  says 
I.  "You're  a  winner.  But  tell  me;  where  did 
you  dig  up  the  plot  of  the  piece?  From  some 
movie  play?" 

285 


TRILBY  MAY  CRASHES  IN 

"Huh!"  says  Inez.  "Don't  I  tell  you  I  can 
think  up  things  out  of  my  own  head?  But  it's 
hard,  that  thinkin'.  Three  days,  and  sometimes 
in  the  night  I  am  at  it,  until  everything  goes 
'round  and  'round.  After  a  while  it  comes, 
though.  I  see  how  I  can  do  it  if  I  don't  make 
any  slip.  And  I  guess  I  put  one  over,  eh,  Trilby 
May?" 

"I'll  tell  that  much  to  any  jury,"  says  I.  "And 
I  want  to  take  back  some  unjust  thoughts,  Inez. 
You've  got  a  whole  lot  more  above  the  ears  than 
I've  ever  given  you  credit  for.  Sixty  a  week! 
Say,  let's  celebrate  with  a  dinner  at  Tortoni's, 
my  blow.  You're  all  costumed  for  the  party. 
Wait  until  I  climb  into  my  three  best  pieces  and 
you  be  making  up  your  mind  whether  the  big  dish 
will  be  breast  of  pheasant  or  grilled  pigs'  feet. 
I  get  you,  Inez.  Ring  'em  up  on  the  'phone  and 
have  'em  put  those  trotters  on  the  grill." 

THE  END 


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